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THE COMPLETE 



POETICAL AND PROSE WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS; 



Life, Notes, Correspondence and Glossary 



A. CUNNINGHAM, ESQ., 



©riijinal piMcs from tfic ©oIlMtton of Sit HEigcrton 33ral)f5JS, 33ari, 



NEW YORK: 
R. WORTHmGTON, 770 BROADWAY. 
1881 



h.u . 



:vJa'03 




Cnntente. 



Mt nf Enkrt fmns. 



Initiatory Remarks .... 1 

Life 8 

Letter of a Lady to the Dumfries Journal 

on the Character, &c., of Burns . 68 
An Enquiry into the literary Merits of 

BuruB r r • • • . 71 



Addenda : — 

Letter of Gilbert Burns to Dr. Catrio 87 

Second Letter of Gabert Burns . 83 
Widow, Children, and Irother of 

Burns 94 

Phrenological Development of Barns . 8C 



f ddirnl i^nrh nf Enhrt fmm. 



Tho Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Mailie 101 

Poor Mailie's Ele^ • • • • 102 

Epistle to Davie . • * • • 102 
Address to the Deil . . . .103 

The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie 105 
Halloween . , , , . .106 

A Winter Night 103 

Epistle to J. Lapraik • • . . 109 
To the Same ...» s 110 

To William Simpson . . • .111 
Death and Dr. Hornbook . « , 113 

The Holy Fair 114 

The Ordination . . . , , 117 

To James Smith 118 

The Jolly Beggars— A Cantata . . 119 
Man was Made to Mourn . • ,123 
To a Mouse ...... 124 

The Vision : 124 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prcyer 127 

Scotch Drink 129 

Address to the Unco Good . . . 130 
Tarn Samson's Elegy . , , .130 
Despondency . . . , , 131 
Tho Cotter's Saturday Night . . ,132 
To a Mountain Daisy . , . , 134 
Epistle to a Young Friend . . .135 
A Dedication to Gavin Haoulton, Esq. 136 
A Dream ....... 137 

A Bard's Epitaph « • . . 138 

1 



The Twa Dogs 139 

Lament ...... 141 

Address to Edinburgh . . . .143 

The Brigs of Ayi- .... 142 

On Captain Matthew Henderson . • 145 

Tarn O' Shanter ..... 146 

Tragic Fragment ..... 148 

Winter, a Dirge 148 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent 

Anguish 149 

A Prayer on the Prospect of Death . 149 

Stanzas on the same Occasion . . 149 

ElcgY on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 149 

The Calf 150 

The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie . 130 

Holy Willie's Prayer .... 151 
Epitaph on Holy Willie . . . .153 

Epistle to John Gondie of Kilmarnock 152 

Epistle to John Rankine . . . 152 

Third Epistle to John Lapraik . . 152 
Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math . .153 

The American War .... 154 

Second Epistie to Davie, a Brother Poet 154 

To Ruin 155 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm 155 

The First Psalm . , . , , 155 



To a Louse .;.,,, 156 

The Inventory 156 

A Note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 167 

Willie Chalmers 157 




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co:ntents. 



PiOE 

Lines Wiittsn on a Bank Note » , 158 

To a Kiss 158 

Verses Writf.en under Violent Grief . 158 
Verses Left at a Friend's House where 

the Author Slept cue Night , . 158 

To Mr. M'Adam 159 

Lines on Meetintr with Basil, Lord Daer 159 

Epistle to Major Lofjan . . , 159 

lament on Leaving Scotland , <, , IfiO 

On a Scotch Eard .... 160 
Written on a Blank Leaf of a Copy of Poems 161 

The Farewell 161 

To a Hagsiis 161 

To Miss Logan, -vrith Beattie's Poems . 162 

Extempore in the Court of Session . 162 

To the Guidwife of Wauchope House . 162 
Verses Written under the Portrait of 

Fergusson the Poet . . . 163 

Inscription on the Headstone ofFergusson 163 
Prologue, S])oken by Mr. Woods ou his 

Benefit Night 163 

Epistle to William Creech . . . 164 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 165 
On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Loeh- 

Turit 165 

The Humble Petition of Bruar "Water . 166 

The Hermit 166 

Verses written over the Chimney-piece 

of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth . 167 

Elegy on the Death of Lord Dundas . 167 

Verses written by the Fall of Fvers . 168 

On Ftoading of tli'e Death of John M'Leod 168 

On William Smellie .... 168 
Address to Mr. William Tj'tler . .168 

A Sketch 169 

To Miss Cruikshanks . . . .189 
An Kxtempore Effusion, on being Ap- 
pointed to the Excise . . . 169 
To Clarinda, with a Presejit of a Pair of 

Drinking Glasses . . . .169 

To Clarinda, on his Leaving Edinburgh 16) 

Epistle to Hugh Parker . . . 170 
Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage, on 

the Banks of Nith . . . .170 

Extempore to Captain Riddel . . 171 

A Mother's Lament . • • . 171 

Elciry on the Year 1788 . . 171 
A('di-ess to the Tooth-Acho . . .172 

0(!e, Sacred to the ^lemory of Mrs. Oswald 172 

Letter to James Tennant . . . 172 
A Fragment, Inscribed to the Kight Hon. 

C. J. Fox 173 

On Seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me, 

which a Fellow had just Shot . 173 

The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire ... 174 

To Dr. Blackiock .... 175 

Delia ....... 175 

Sketch, New- Year's Day ... 175 

Prologue, spoken at the Dumfries Theatre 176 
P-ologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit 

Night, Dumfries 176 

Written to a Gentleman 'who had sent 

the Poet a Newspaper . . . 177 

Pea: Nicholson 177 

To' My Bed 17S 

First Epistle to Mr. Graham of Pintry . 178 

The Five Carlines . . . . 179 

Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry 180 
On Captain Grose's Peregrinations 

through Scotland . . . • 161 



Written in an Envelope, enclosing a 

Letter to Captain Grose 
Address of Beelzebub to the President of 

the Highland Society . . , 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots . 
The Whistle .... 

Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . 
Lines sent to Sir John V»'hiteford, Bart. 
Third Epistle to Mr Graham, of Fintry 
Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry 
The Rights of Woman . . . 
A Vision ..... 
Liberty, a Fragment 
To Mr. Maxwell, on his Birth-Day 
On Pastoral Poetry 
Sonnet, on Hearing a Thrush Sing 
The Tree of Liberty 
To General Dumourier 
Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had 

OflTended 



Monody on a Lady Famed for Her Caprice 189 
Ei^istle from ^Esopus to Maria . . 190 
S(mnet on the Death of Captain Riddel . 191 
Irapromtu on Mrs. Riddel's Birth-Day 191 
Verses to Miss Graham of Fintry . 19' 

The Vowels, a Tale 191 

Verses to John Rankine . . . 193 

On Sensibility 192 

Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 

her Benefit Night .... 192 

To Chloris 193 

AdcU"ess to the Shade of Thomson . 193 
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Elections, BaUad 

First 193 

Ballad Second, The Election . . 193 
Ballad Third, An Excellent New Song . 194 

OuLife 195 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence 195 
On the Death of a Favourite Child . . 195 
To Mr. Mitchell • .... 196 
The Ruined Maid's Lament . . .196 
The Dean of the Faculty ... 196 
Verses on the Destruction of the Woods / 

near Drumlanrig .^197 

On the Duke of Queensberry . . 197 
Verses to John M'Murdo • . . 197 

On Mr. M'Murdo, Inscribed on a Pane 

of Glass in his House . . . 197 
Impromtu on Willie Stewart • . 198 

To Miss Jessy Lewars . . . 198 

Tibbie, I hae seen the Day . . ,198 
Montgomery's Peggy . . : 198 

Bonny Peggy Alison . . . .193 
Here's to thy Health, my Bonny Lass 198 

Young Peggy 199 

John Barleycorn . . . . , 1 9'' 
The Rigs o"' Barley .... 200 
The Ploughman . . . t • 200 
Song composed in August . • . -00 
Yon Wild Mossy Mountains . • .201 

My Nannie, O 201 

Green Grow the Raslr.es . • • ,202 
The Cure for all Care . . ... 202 
On Cessnock Banks . • . .202 

The Highland Lassie .... 203 
Powers Celestial . . • . • 203 
From thee, Eliza . • • • 2i)3 

Menie . . . o a • • 203 
The Farewell , « « » f 201 



182 

183 

ls2 
183 
181 
ls4 
185 
185 
186 
186 
187 
187 
187 
188 
1.S8 
1S8 
189 

189 



CONTENTS, 



IS 



FAQS 

riie Braea o' nallochmylo . . .201 
The Lass o' Ballochmyle . . . 20 J 
The rjloomy Nisht is Gathering Fast . 205 
The Banks o' Doon .... 203 
The Birks of Aberfeldy ..... 20") 
I'm owre Young to Jlarry Yet . • 20G 
M'Pherson's Farewell .... 206 
How L.ong and Dreary is the Night . 206 
H'.'re's a Health to Them that's Awa . 206 
Strathallaa's Lament .... 207 
The Banks of the Devon . . . .207 
Braving Angry Winter's Storms . 207 

My Peggy's Face 207 

Raving Winds around her Blowing ,. 208 

Highland Harry 208 

Musing on the Koaring Ocean . . 208 

Blythe was She 208 

The Gallant Weaver . . . . 20k 
The Blude-red Kose at Yule may Blaw . 209 
A Rose-bud by my Early Walk . . 209 
Bonnie Castle Gordon .... 209 
When Januar' Wind .... 209 
Tlie Young Highland Rover . . .20 
Bonnie Ann . . . * • 210 

Blooming Nelly 210 

My Bonnie Mary . • • . 211 

Ane Fond Kiss . . . « , all 

The Smiling Spring . . . . '^11 

The Lazv Mist .211 

Of a' tne Airts the Wind can Blaw . 211 
Oh, were I on Parnassus' Hill . .212 
' The Chevallier's Lament . . . 21 a 
My Heart's in the Highlands . .212 

John Anderson . . . • • 213 
To Mary in Heaven . . • .213 

Young jockey 213 

The Di.y Returns . . , • .213 
Oh, Willie Brew'd . . . . 213 
I Gaed a Wafu' Gate Yestreen . . -1-1 
The Banks of Nith .... 214 
My Heart is a-breaking, Dear Tittie . 214 
There'll never be Peace . . . 214 
Meikle thinks mv Love . . . .215 
How can I be Blythe and Glad . . 215 
I do Confess thou art sae Fair • .215 

Hunting Song . . . • . 21 j 
What can a Young Lassie . • . 21J 
The Bonnie Wee Thing . . . 216 
Lovely Davies . . . . • .216 
Oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam • • 216 
Kenmure's on and Awa . . . .217 
Bess and her Spinning AYheel . . 217 
Oh Luve will Venture in . . .217 

In Simmer, when the Hay was Mawn 217 
Turn again, thou Fair Eliza . . .218 

Willie Wastle 218 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation . 218 

Song of Death 219 

She's Fair and Fause . . . .219 
Flow Gently, Sweet Afton . . . 219 
The Lovely Lass of Inverneso « .219 
A red, red Rose . . ... 220 
Louis, what Reck I by Thee . ■ , :^<'20 
The Excisemar. .... (^f/f'"'220 
Somebody ...«•. 220 

I'll aye ca' in by yon Town • ■ 220 

Will thou be my Dearie { . . . 22 1 

Oh, Wat ye Wha's in yon lown , 221 

But L&tely Seen . . • . .221 
Could ought, of Sone i . • . 321 



Oh, Steef her up . . . 
It was a' for our Rightfu' King 
Oh, wha is She that Loes me ? 

Caledonia 

Oh, lay thy Loof in Mine, Laso • 
Anna, thy Charms , . . ■ 
Gloomy December . . > > 
Oh, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet 
Cassillis' Banks .... 
Jly Lady's Gown, therj's Gairs upon' 
The Fete Champetre . . . 
The Dumfries Voluuteofs t • 
Oh, Mert Thou in the Cault Blast . 
Lovely Polly Stewart . > • 
Yestreen I had a Pint o' Win* 
The Lea Rig , , . • 

Bonnie Lesley .... 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary? 
My Wile's a Winsome Wee Thing . 
Highland Mary , . « . 
Auld Rob jSIorris .... 
Duncan Gray • . , . 
Poort th Cauld • . . • 

Gala Water . • • r s 
liord Gregory . . • « • 
Mary Morison . « • > 
Wandering Willie .... 
The Soldier's Return ... 
Biythe hae I been on yun Hill 
Logan Braes .... 

Oh, gin my Love were yon Red Rose 

Bonnie Jean 

Meg 0' the Mill .... 

Open the Door to me, oh . 

Young Jessie 

Ailown winding Nith 1 did Wr.nder 

Had X a Cave 

PhiUis the Fair .... 
By Allan Stream I chanc'd to Rove 
Come let me take Thee to my iSreast 
Whistle and I'll Come to you, my Lad 
Dainty Davie .... 

Bruce's Address .... 
Behold the Hour ... 

Auld Lang Syne • . • • 
Where are the Joys ! . . . 
Thou hast Left me Ever . • > 
Deluded Swain, the Pleasure , 
Thine I am, my Faithful Fair . 

My Spou-e, Nancy . . . 
The Banks of Cree .... 
On the Seas and Far Away . 

Ca' the Yowes to the Kuowes . , 
She says she Loes me Best of A' . 
Saw ye my Philly ? . 
How Long and Dreary is the Night ? 
Let not Woman e'er Complain 
Sleep'st thou, or Wak'st thou 
Jly Chloris, mark how Green the Groves 
It was the Charnrjjg Month oi' May 
Farewell, thou Stream that Wind 

Flows 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks . 
Philly and Willy .... 
Contented wi' Little 
Can'st thou Leave me Thuj mv Katv' 
For a' That, and a* That . '. 
My Nannie's Awa . . • 

Craigieburn Wood ... 
Oh Lassie, art thou Sleeping yot 



FAOI! 

223 
2ii 
222 
222 
223 
223 
223 
224 
224 
224 
224 
225 
225 
225 
2i6 
2.6 
2-6 
226 
227 
227 
227 
227 
228 
228 
2-'8 
228 
229 
22:) 
230 
230 
23C 
230 
231 
231 
231 
231 
232 
232 
232 
233 
233 
233 
233 
233 
234 
234 
234 
234 
234 
235 
235 
235 
236 
236 
236 
2o6 
237 
237 
i37 
237 

237 

238 
238 
238 
239 
239 
239 
24C 
24fi 



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CONTENTS. 



my 



Addi^ess to the "Woodlart • • 
On Chloris being 111 . . . 
Their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle 
How Cruel are the Parents . 
"J'was na her Bonnie Blue Ee was 

RuiB 

Mark yon Pomp of Costly Fashion 

Oh, this is no uiyAin Lassie . . . 

Jfow Spring has Clad the Grove in Green 

Oh, Bonnie was yon Eosy Brier . 

Forlorn my Love, no Comfort near 

Hey lor a Lass wi' a Tocher 

Last May a Braw ■Wooer . 

Fragment ... 

Jessy 



Fairest Maid on Devon Banks 

Handsome Nell . . • 

My Father was a Farmer . 

Up in the Morning Early . 

Hey, the Dusty Miller . > 

Kobin ..... 

The Bells of Mauchline . 

Her Flowing Locks . • 

rVje Sons of GUI Killie . . 

The .Joyful Widower • • 

O, Whare did you Get ? . 

There was a Lass . . . 

Landlady, Count the Lawin 

KattUn' Roarin' Willie . . 

Simmer's a Pleasant Time . 

Jly Love she.'s but a Lassie yet 

The Captain's Lady 

First when Meggy was my Care 

Thei'e's a Youth in this City 

Oh aye my Wite she Dang me 

Ejipie Adair .... 

The Battle of Sheriff-Muir 

The Higliland Widow's Lament 

Whare hae ye Been 1 

Theniel Meiizie's Bonnie Mary 

Frae the Friend^^nd Land I Love 

Gane is the Day . . 

The Tither Morn . . . 

Come Boat me o'er to Charlie 

It is na, Jean, thy Bonnie Face 

1 hae a Wife o' my Ain 

Withsdale's Welcome Home . 

My Collier Laddie 

As 1 was a -Wandering . . 

Ye Jacobites by Name • 

Lady Mary Ann . . • 

Out over the Forth 

Jockey's taen the Parting Kise 

The Carles o' Dysart . 

Lady Onlie .... 

Young Jamie, Pride of a' the Plain 

Jenny's a' wat, Poor Body . 

The Cardin' o't . . . 

To thee. Loved Nith 

Bae Far Awa . • • 

M'ae is my Heart • • 

Anianir the Trees . . 

The Highland Laddie . 

Bannocks o' Barley . . 

Eobin Shure in Hairet • 

Sweetest May ... 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 

Here's a Bottle and an Honest Fiiend 

On a Ploughman • . 

Tlic Weary Fund o' Tow ; 



rAOE 

a40 

240 
241 
241 

241 

241 

241 

242 

242 

242 

243 

243 

243 

243 

244 

244 

24-1 

245 

245 

245 

245 

245 

246 

24G 

246 

246 

246 

247 

247 

247 

247 

247 

248 

24S 

248 

248 

249 

249 

249 

250 

250 

250 

250 

260 

251 

251 

251 

251 

252 

252 

25^ 

25.' 

25.' 

253 

253 

253 

25:i 

253 

253 

254 

254 

254 

254 

254 

255 

255 

255 

255 

255 



PAOB 

The Laddiea bj the Banks o' Nith . 253 

Epigrams, &c 25>6 

On Captain Grose . . , .256 
On a Henpecked Country Squire . 25fi 
Another on his Widow .... 256 
On Elphinstone's Translations of Mar- 
tial's Epigrams ..... 256 
On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr . . . 25ff 
On an Illiterate Gentleman . . 256 
Written under the Picture of Miss 

Burns 256 

Wiitten on the 'Window of the Inn at 

Carron 250 

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn 

at Moffat 257 

Fragment 257 

On incivility shown him at Invernary 257 

Highland Hospitality . . . 257 

Lines on Miss Kemhle .... 257 

On the Kirk at Lamington . . 257 

The Solemn League and Covenant . 257 

On a certain Parson's Looks . . 257 
On Seeing the Beautiful Seat of the 

Earl of » • • • 257 

On theEarlof »•** ... 257 

On the Same 257 

To the Same, on the Author being 

threatened with his resentment . 257 

On an Empty Fellow .... 258 
Written on a Pane of Glass, on the 

Occasion of a National Thanksgiving 253 
The True Loyal Natives . . .258 

Inscription on a Goblet • • • 2^S 

Extempore on Mr. Syme • ■ • 258 

To Mr. Svme 258 

The Creed of Poverty . ... 258 

Written in a Lady's Pocket Boob • 258 

To John Taylor 258 

To Miss Fontenelle . , • . 258 

The Toast 259 

Excisemen Universal . . . 259 
To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's 

recovery 2^9 

On Jessy Lewars . . • . . 259 

Toast to the Same . , , , 259 

Epitaph on the Same . . « • -59 

To the Same ..... 259 

Graces before Meat • • • . £59 

Epitaphs . . . . • • 260 

On the Author's Father . . . 260 

On a Henpecked Country Squire • 26C 

On a Celebrated Ruling Elder . . 260 

On a Noisy Polemic .... 260 

On Wee Johnny 260 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline 260 
For Robert Aiken, Esq. . . ,260 

On a Friend 260 

For Gavin Hamilton • • • • 260 

On Wat S60 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, 

Fifeshire 261 

On Mr. W. Cruikshanks , . .261 

For William Nicol . • • « 261 

On W 261 

On the Same .... .261 

On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer . • 261 

On John Busby, Writer, Dumfries . 26i 

On the Poet's Daughter . . . iU' 
On a Picture rei)resent:ng Juccib'G 

Dream • • i • c . 2^' 




fife of Jlnlitrt 33urn5. 



faitiatnni ^Rfnirtrtts. 

Though the dialect in which many of the 
happiest effusions of Robert Burns are 
composed be peculiar to Scotland, yet his 
repT<"ntion has extended itself beyond the 
Units of that country, and his poetry has 
been admired as the offspring of original 
genius, by persons of taste in every part of 
the sister islands. It seems proper, there- 
fore, to write the memoirs of his life, not 
with the view of their being read by Scotch- 
men onl}', but also by natives of England, 
and of other countries where the Eughsh 
language is spoken or understood. 

Kobert Burns was, in reality, what he has 
been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. 
To render the incidents of his humble story 
generally inteUigible, it seems, therefore, 
advisable to prefix some observations on the 
character and situation of the order to which 
he belonged — a class of men distmguished 
by many peculiarities : by this means we 
shall form a more correct notion of the 
advantages with which he started, and of 
the obstacles which he surmounted. A few 
observations on the Scottish peasantry ■ftill 
rot, perhaps, be found unworthy of atten- 
tion in other respects — and the subject is, 
ill a great measure, new. Scotland has 



prodnccd persons of high distinction in 
e\ery branch of philosophy and literature j 
and her history, while a separate and mde- 
peudent nation, has been successfully ex« 
plored. But the present character of the 
people was not then formed, the nation then 
presented features similar to those which 
the feudal system and the Catholic religion 
had diffused over Europe, moditied, indeed, 
by the peculiar nature of her territory and 
cUmate. Tlie Beformation, by which such 
important changes were produced on the 
national character, was speedily followed by 
the accession of the Scottish monarchs to 
the Enghsh throne ; and the period which 
elapsed from that accession to the Union, 
has been rendered memorable, chiefly, by 
those bloody convulsions in which both 
divisions of the island were involved, and 
wliich, in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the liistorian the domestic 
history of the people, and the gradual varia- 
tions in tVeir condation and manners. Since 
the Union, Scotland, though the seat of 
two unsuccessful attempts to restore the 
house of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed 
a comparative tranquillity; and it is since 
this period that the present character of her 
peasantry has been in a great measure 
formed, though the political causes affecting 



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.,^<iit>^ 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



n art to oe traced to the previous acts of 
her separate lejfislatiire. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasan- 
try of Scotland will serve to comince an 
Unprejudiced observer, that they possess a 
dejrree of intelligence not generally found 
among the same class of men in the other 
countries of Europe. In the very h\iml)lest 
condition of the Scottish peasants, every 
one can read, and most persons are more or 
less skilled in wTiting and arithmetic ; and, 
under the disguise of their uncouth appear- 
ance, and of their peculiar manners and 
dialect, a stranger will discover that they 
possess ft curiosity, and have obtained a 
degree of itiformatiou, correspondhig to 
these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal 
provision made by the Parliament of Scot- 
land in 1646, for the establishment of a 
school in every parish throughout the 
kingdom, for the express purpose of educa- 
ting the poor — a law which may challenge 
comparison with any act of legislation to 
be found in the records of history, whether 
we consider the wisdom of the ends in 
view, the simplicity of the means employed, 
or the provisions — made to render these 
means effectual to their purpose. This ex- 
cellent statute was repealed on the accession 
of Charles II. in 1660, together with all the 
other laws passed during the Common- 
wealth, as not being sanctioned by the Koyal 
assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles 
and James II., but was re-enacted precisely 
i'l the same terms, by the Scottish Parlia- 
ment, in 1696, after the Revolution ; and 
this is the last provision on the subject. 
Its effects on the national character may be 
considered to have commenced about the 
period of the Union, and doubtless it co- 
operated with the peace and security arising 
from that happy event, in producnig the 
extraordinary change in favour of industry 
and gaod morals, which the character of the 
connnou people of Scotland has sisce under- 
gone. 

The church establishrr-ent of Scotland 
iiappily coincides with the institution just 
iKMitioned, which may be call;ed its school 
estalilishment. The clergyman, being every- 
where resident in his particular parish, 
becomes the natural patron and superinten- 
dant of the parish school, and is enabled in 
various ways to promote the comfort of the 
teacher, and the proticiency of the scholars. 
Tlie teacher himself is often a candidate 
for holy orders, who, during the long course 
of study and probation required in the 
8cotti3h church, rendeiB the time which can 



be spared from his professional studies useful 
to others as well as to himself, by assuming 
the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
It is common for the established schools, 
even in the country parishes of Scotland, to 
enjoy the means of classical instruction ' 
and many of the farmers, and some even 
of the cottagers, submit to much privation, 
that they may obtain, for one of their 
sons at least, the precarious advantage of 
a learned education. The difficulty to be 
surmoiuited arises indeed, not from the 
expense of instructing their children, but 
from the charge of supporting them. In the 
country parish schools, the English lan- 
guage, writing and aceoinits, are generally 
taught at the rate of six shillings, and 
Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings, 
per annum. In the towns the prices are 
somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to 
inquire minutely into the degree of instruc- 
tion received at these seminaries, or to 
attempt any precise estimate of its effects, 
either on the uidividnals who are the sub- 
jects of this instrnction, or on the com- 
munity to which they belong. That it is, 
on the whole, favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some inili- 
vidual exceptions, seems to be proved by 
the most striking and decisive experience ; 
and it is equally clear, that it is the cause of 
that spirit of emigration and of adventure 
so pre\alent among the Scotch. Knowledge 
has, by Lord Verulara, been denominated 
power ; by others it has, with less propriety, 
been denominated \'irtue or happiness : we 
may with confidence consider it as motion. 
A human being, in proportion as he is 
informed, has his wishes enlarged, as well 
as the means of gratifying those ^^^shes, 
He may be considered as taking within tho 
s)ihere of his vision a large portion of the 
globe on which we tread, and discovering 
advantage at a greater distance on its siur- 
face. His desires or ambition, once excited, 
are stimulated by his imiigination ; and 
distant and uncertain objects, gl^^ng /reer 
scope to the operation oif tliis faculty; often 
acquire, in the mind of the youthful ad% en- 
turer, an attraction from their very distance 
and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater de- 
gree of instruction be given to the peasantrj 
of a country comparatively poor, ui the 
neighbourhood of other countries rich in 
natural and acquired advantages, and i( 
the barriers be removed that kept them 
separate, emigration fi'om the former to the 
latter will take place to a certain extent, 
I by \&W3 nearly as uniform m *hose bj 



RELIGIOUS EDUCAllON. 



rhicliheat diffuses itself amnns: surrounding 
ho()»es. or water finds its level when left to 
Its natural course. By the articles of the 
Union, the barrier was broken down which 
divided the two British nations, and know- 
led:;e and poverty poured the adventurous 
natives of the north over the fertile plains 
of England ; and more especially, over the 
colonies which she had settled in the east 
and in the west. The stream of population 
continues to flow from the north to the 
south, for the causes that originally impelled 
it continue to operate ; and the richer 
country is constantlyvinvigorated by the 
accession of an informed and hardy race 
of men, educated in poverty, and prepared 
for hardship and danger; patient of labour 
and prodijcal of life. 

The preachers of the Reformation in 
Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and 
brought with them the temper as \y^\\ as 
the tenets of that celebrated heresiarch. 
The Presbyterian form of worship and of 
church government was endeared to the 
people, from its being established by them- 
selves. It was endeared to tliem, also, by 
the struggle it had to maintain with the 
Catholic and Protestant episcopal churche: 



national church; and hence the first and 
most constant exercise of ingenuity among 
the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in 
religious disputation. With a strong attach- 
ment to the national creed, is conjoined a 
bigoted preference for certain fonns of wor- 
ship ; the source of which would be often 
altogether obscure, if we did not recollect 
that the ceremonies of the Scottish Church 
were framed in direct opposition, in every 
point, to those of the Church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singn- 
larities of opinion and manners, which cha- 
racterised the English sectaries in the last 
century, afl'orded a subject for the comic 
muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their 
interest since their archetypes are lost. 
Some of the peculiarities common among 
the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in 
Scotland, in the present times, have given 
scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose 
humour is equal to Butler's, and whose 
drawings from living manners are singularly 
expressive and exact. Unfortunately, the 
correctness of his taste did not always cor- 
respond with the strength of his genius. 

The information and the religious educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, promote 



over both of which, after a hundred years I sedateness of conduct, and habits of thought 
of fierce, and sometimes bloody contention, i and reflection. These good qualities are not 
it finally triumphed, receiving the counte- 1 counteracted by the establishment of poor 
nance of government and the sanction of laws. Happily, in Scotland, the same legis- 
law. During this long period of contention i lature which estabhshed a system of instruc- 
end of suftering, the temper of the people tiou for the poor, resisted the introduction 
became more and more obstinate and ! of a legal pro\ision for the support of 
bigoted ; and the nation received that deep j poverty ; hence it will not appear surprising, 
tinge of fanaticism which coloured then- if the Scottish peasantry have a more than 
public transactions, as well as their private ' usual share of prudence and reflection, if 
virtues, and of which evident traces may be I they approach nearer than persons of their 
found in our own times. When the public | order usually do to the definition of a 
schools were established, the instruction I man — that of "a being that looks before 
ccmmunicated in them partook of the re- I and after." These observations must indeed 
iigious character of the people. The Cate- j be taken with many exceptions ; the favour- 



chism of the Westminster Divines was the 
universal school-book, and was put into the 
hands of the young peasant as soon as he 
had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
and his first exercise in the art of reading, 
introduced him to the most mysterious 
doctrines of the Christian faith. This prac- 
tice is continued in our o\ni times. After the 
Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solo- 
mon, and the New and Old Testament follow 
in regular succession ; and the scholar de- 
parts, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines 
according to the interpretation of the West- 
minster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the 
instruction of infancy in the schools of 
Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the 



2* 



able operation of the causes just mentioned 
is counteracted by others of an opposite 
tendency; and the subject, if fully examined, 
would lead to discussions of great extent. 

When the Reformation was established iu 
Scotland, instrumental music >Tas banished 
from the churches, as savouring too much 
of " profane minstrelsy." Instead of being 
regulated by an instrument, the voices of 
the congregation are led and directed by a 
person under the name of a precentor, and 
the people ;.» all expected to join in the 
tune which i«; chooses for the psalm which 
is to be smig. Church music is therefore a 
part of the education of t'ne peasantry of 
Scotland, in which they are usually in. 
structed in the long winter uighta Ky thi 




:^l 



^<mB^ 



ftrs 




LIFE OF BURNS. 



parisFa schDolmaster, who is generally the 
precentor, or by itinerant teachers, more 
celebrated for their powers of voice. I'his 
branch of education had, in the last reign, 
fallen into some neglect, but was revived 
about thirty oi forty years ago, when the 
music itself was reformed and improved. 
The Scottish system of psalmody is, how- 
ever, radically bad. Destitute of taste or 
harmony, it forms a striking contrast with 
tlie delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. 
Our poet, it will be foimd, was taught church 
music, in which, however he attained Uttle 
proliciency. 

That dancing should also be very gene- 
lally a part of the education of the Scottish 
peasantry, will surprise those who have only 
seen this description of men ; and still more 
those who reflect on the rigid spirit of Cal- 
vinism, with which the nation is so deeply 
affected, and to which this recreation is so 
strongly abhorrent. The winter is also the 
season when they acquire dancing, and, 
indeed, almost all their other instruction. 
They are taught to dance by persons gene- 
rally of their own uuniber, many of whom 
work at dady labour during the summer 
months. The school is usually a barn, and 
the arena for the performers is generally 
a clay floor. The dome is lighted by 
caniUes stuck in one end of a cloven stick, 
the other end of which is thrust into the 
wall. Reels, strathspeys, contra-dances, and 
hornpipes, are here practised. The jig, 
so much in favour among the English 
peasantry, has no place' among them. The 
attaeliment of the people of Scotland of 
every rank, and particularly of the peasan- 
try, to this amusement, is very great. 
After the labours of the day are over, 
young men and women walk many miles, 
iu the cold and dreary nights of winter, 
to these comitry dancuig-schools; and the 
instant that the viohn somids a Scottish 
air, fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent 
rustic becomes erect, his features brighten 
with sympathy, every nerve seems to thrill 
with sensation, and every artery to vibrate 
with life. These rustic performers are 
indeed less to be admired for grace than 
for agility and animation, juid for their 
accurate observance of time. Their modes 
of daucuig, as well as their tunes, are com- 
mon to every rank in Scotland, and are 
now generally known. In our own day 
they have penetrated into England, and 
have established themselves even in the 
circle of royalty. In another generation 
they will be natuiahsed iu eveyy part of 
Ute island 



The prevalence of thii ^ te, or ratiici 
passion, for dauchig, am-t 4^, a people so 
deeply tinctured with the a^'lt and doc> 
trines of Calvin, is one ef those contra- 
dictions which the philosopluc observer so 
often finds in national character and manners. 
It is probably to be ascribed t^ the Scottish 
music, which, throughout all its varieties, 
is so fidl of sensibility, and which, in ita 
livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotion* 
that find in dancing their natural solace aud 
relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland 
over the spirit of the estabhshed religion, 
has not however, been obtained, without 
lou";, -continued and obstinate struggles. The 
ii'iu>'-rous sectaries who dissent from the 
EEiablishment on account of the relaxation 
which they perceive, or think they perceive, 
in the Church, from her original doctri'.ies 
and disciplme, universally condemn the prac- 
tice of llaucing, and the schools where it ii 
taught ; and the more elderly and scrioua 
part of the people, of every persuasion 
tolerate rather than approve these meetings 
of the young of both sexes, where dancing 
is practised to their spuit-stirring music, 
where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten, 
and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to 
sleep. (1) 

Ike Reformation, which proved fatal to 
the rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, 
probably impeded, but could not obstruct, 
the progress of its music — a circinnstance 
that will convince the impartial inquirer, 
that this music not only existed previously 
to that era, but had taken a firm hold of 
the nation, thus afforchng a proof of its 
antiquity stronger than any produced by 
the researches of our antiquaries. (2) 

The impression which the Scottish music 
has made on the people, is deepened by its 
union with the national songs, of which 
various collections of unequal merit are 
before the pubhc. These songs, like those 
of other nations, are many of them hu- 
morous, but they eliiefly treat of lo^e, war, 
and drinking. Love is the subject of the 
greater proportion. Without displaying 
the higher powers of the imagination, they 
exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human 
heart, aud breathe a spuit of aftection, and 
sometimes of delicate and romantic ten- 
derness, not to be surpassed in modern 
poetry, and which the more polished strams 
of antiquity have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in 
the rustic muse of Scotland, or of the 
greater number of these love-songs them* 
selves, it would be difficult to trace ; the^ 











SOCIAL ESTTERCOmiSE OF THE SEXES. 



ftave accumulated in the silent lapse of 
time, and it is now perhaps impossible to 
pse an airangmnent of them in the order 
of their date, valuable as such a record ef 
taste and manners would be. Their present 
influence on the character of tlie nation is, 
however, great and striking. To them we 
must attribute, in a great measure, the 
romantic passion which so often character- 
ises the attachments of the humblest of 
the people of Scotland, to a degree that, if 
we mistake not, is seldom found in the 
same rank of society in other countries. 
The pictui-js of love and happiness exhibited 
in their rural songs, are early impressed on 
the mind of the peasant, and are rendered 
more attractive from the music with « Inch 
they are united. They associate themsehes 
with his own youthfui emotions ; they ele- 
vate the object as well as the nature of his 
attachment ; and give to the impressions 
of sense the beautiful colours of imagination. 
Hence, in the course of his passion, a Scottish 
peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, 
of wliich a Spanish cavalier need not be 
ashamed. After the labours of the day are 
over, he sets out for the habitation of his 
mistress, perhaps at many miles' distance, 
regardless of the length or the dreariness 
of the way. He approaches her in secrecy, 
under the disguise of night. A signal at 
the door or window, perhaps agreed on, and 
understood by none but her, gives in- 
formation of his arrival ; and sometimes it 
is repeated again and again, before the ca- 
pricious fair-one will obey the summons. 
But if slie favours his addresses, slie escapes 
anohserved, and receives the vows of her 
lover under the gloom of twilight or the 
deeper shade of night. Iuter\!ews of tliis 
kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish 
loiigs, some of the most beautiful of which 
Burns has imitated or improved. In the 
art i.\hich they rt'iebrate he was perfectly 
skilled ; he kpiw and had practised all its 
mysteries. Iiitarcourse of this sort is indeed 
universal, even in the humblest condition 
of man in every region of the earth. But 
it is not unnatural to suppose that it may 
exist in a greater degree, and in a more 
romantic form, aTuoug the peasantry of a 
country who are sup])osed to be more than 
commonly instructed ;-.— who tind in their 
rural songs expressions for their youthful 
emotioBs ; — and in whom the embers of 
passion are continually fanned by the 
breathings of a music full of tenderness 
and sensibility. The direct influence of 
physical causes on the attachment between 
"^^e sexes is comparatively small, but it is 



modified by moral causes beyond any other 
affection of the mind. Of these, music and 
poetry are the cliief. Among tlie snows o^' 
Lapland, and under the burning sun ol 
Angola, the savage is seen hastening to lii* 
mistress, and everywhere he beguiles th» 
weariness of his journey with poetry and 
song. (3) 

In appreciating the happiness and virtin 
of a community, there is perhaps no single 
criterion on which so much dependence maj 
be placed, as the state of the intercourss 
between the sexes. Where this displayt 
ardour of attachment, accompanied by purity 
of conduct, the character and the influence 
of women rise in society, our imperfect 
nature mounts in the scale of mora) '■xceU 
lence ; and, from the source of this, single 
affection,, a stream of felicity descends, 
which branches into a thousand riviUets that 
enrich and adorn the field of life. Where 
the attachment between the sexes sinks into 
an appetite, the heritage of our ifpecies is 
comparatively poor, and man approaches the 
condition of tlie brutes Unit perish. " If we 
could with safety indulge the pleasing sup- 
position that Fingal lived and that Ossian 
sung" (4), Scotland, judging ft'ora this crite- 
rion, might be considered as ranking high 
in happiness and \irtue in very remote ages. 
To appreciate her situation by the same 
criterion in our o%vn times, would be a 
delicate and a dithcidt undertaking. After 
considering the probable influence of her 
popular songs and her national music, and 
examining how far the effects to be expected 
from tJiese are supported by facts, the in- 
quirer would also have to examine the 
influence of other causes, and particularly 
of her ci\ il and ecclesiastical institutions, by 
which the character, and even the manners 
of a people, though silently and slow ly, arc 
often powerfully controlled. In the point 
of view in which we are considering the 
subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of 
Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- 
vourable to purity of conduct. The disso- 
luteness of manners among the Catholic 
clergy, which preceded, and m some measure 
produced the Reformation, led to an ex- 
traordinary strictness on the part of the 
reformers, and especially in that particular 
in which the licentiousness of the clergy 
had been cvried to its greatest heightr— 
the intercourse between the sexes. On this 
point, as on all others connected ivith aiiste. 
rity of manners, the disciples of Calvin 
assumed a greater severity than those ol 
the Protestant Episcopal church. Th« 
punishment of iUicit connection betwjtJ 




llllllllllllllllllllilllllllllHililll1!lllllllllllllllllll!ll!lll!llllir 




LIFE OF BURNS. 



the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a 
province wl lich the clergy assumed to thera- 
fielves ; and the church of Scotland, which 
at the Reformation renounced so many 
powers and privileges, at that period took 
this crime under her more especial juris- 
diction. Where pregnancy takes place with- 
out marriage, the condition of the female 
causes the discovery ; and it is on her, 
therefore, in the first instance, that the 
clergy and elders exercise their zeal. After 
examination before the kirk-session, touch- 
ing the circumstance of her guilt, she must 
endure a public penance and sustain a 
public rebuke from the pulpit, for three 
Sabbaths successively, in tl»» face of the 
congregation to whicli she belongs, and thus 
have her weakness exposed, and her shame 
blazoned. The sentence is the same with 
resjjcct to the male, but how much lighter 
the punishment ! It is well known that 
this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds 
of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to 
consequences, at the very mention of which 
human nature recoils. (5) 

While the punishment of incontinence 
prescribed by the institutions of Scotland is 
severe, the culprits liave an obvious method 
of avoiding it, afforded them by the law 
respecting marriage, the validity of which 
reijuires neither the ceremonies of the 
church, nor any other ceremonies, but 
simply the dehbcrate acknowledgement of 
each other as husband and wife, made by 
the parties before witnesses, or in any other 
way that gives legal evidence of such an 
acknowledgement having taken place. And 
as the parties themselves fix the date of 
their marriage, an opportunity is thus given 
to avoid the punishment, and repair the con- 
sequences, of illicit gratification. Such a 
degree of laxity respecthig so serious a con- 
tract might produce much confusion in the 
descent of property without a still farther 
indulgence ; but the law of Scotland, legi- 
timating all children born before wedlock, 
cu the subsequent marriage of their parents, 
renders the actual date of the marriage 
itself of little consequence. Jlarriages con- 
tracted in Scotland without the ceremonies 
of tlie church, are considered as irregular, 
and the parties usually submit to a rebuke 
for their conduct, m the face of their 
respective congregations, which is not how- 
ever necessary to render the marriage valid. 
Bums, whose marriage, it will appear, was 
irregular, does not seem to have undergone 
this part of the chscipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland 
are in many particidars favourable to a con- 



duct among the peasantry founded upo« 
foresight and reflection, on the subject oi 
marriage the reverse of this is true. Irre- 
gidar marriages, it may be naturally sup- 
posed, are often improvident ones, in 
whatever rank of society they occar. The 
children of such marriages, poorly endowed 
by their parents, find a certain degree of 
instruction of easy acquisition, but the 
comforts of life, and the gratifications o( 
ambition, they find of more dilficult attain- 
ment in their native soil ; and thus the 
marriage laws of Scotland conspire, with 
other circumstances, to produce tliat habit 
of emigration, and spirit of adventure, for 
wliich the people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scot- 
tish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger 
the degree of their cultivation. In their 
own country, their industry is inferior to 
that of the same description of men in th« 
southern division of the island. Industry and 
the usefid arts reached Scotland later than 
England; and though their advance has 
been rapid there, the effects produced ars 
as yet far inferior both in reality and iu 
appearance. The Scottish farmers have in 
general neither the opidence nor the com- 
forts of those of England, neither vest the 
same capital iu the soil, nor receive from 
it the same return. Their clothing, their 
food, and their habitations, zxe almost 
everywhere infenor. (6) Their appearance iu 
these respects corresponds with the appear- 
ance of their country ; and luider the 
operation of patient industry, both are im- 
proving. Industry and the useful arts came 
later into Scotland than into England, be- 
cause the security of property came later. 
"With causes of internal agitation and warfare, 
similar to those which occurred to the more 
southern nation, the people of Scotland were 
exposed to more imminent hazards and to 
more extensive and destructive spoUation, 
from external war. Occupied in the mainte- 
nance of their independence against their 
more powerful neighbom-s, to this purpose 
were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, 
and, at certain periods, the flower of their 
population. And when the union of the 
crowns produced a security from national 
wars with England, for the century suc- 
ceeding, the civil wars common to both 
divisions of the island, and the dependence, 
perhaps the necessary dependence, of the 
Scottish councils on those of the m)ro 
powerful kingdom, counteracted this disad- 
vantage. Even the union of the British 
nations was not, from obvious causes, im- 
mediately follow^vl by all the beiiebts w\uck 



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i^'^ iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!i!ii!iiiii:;i:miii:iiiiiiiiMiiiiii' n,n;iii'iii!iii 




iiiiii!i:!;;ii:iKiiiiiiiii!i!iiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiii' 



iii;;iiiiiili;iiiiiiiiiiiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiii:i 



PATRIOTISM OF THE SCOTCH, 



7 



H was ultimaluly destined to produce. At 
length, however, these betielits are distinctly 
felt, and generally aicknowled^ed. Property 
is secure; manufactures and commerce in- 
creasing ; and agriculture is rapidly improv- 
ing iu Scotland. As yet indeed, the farmers 
are not, in general, enabled to make improve- 
ments out of their own capitals, as in 
England ; but the landholders who have 
seen and felt the advantau;es resulting from 
them, contribute towards them with a liberal 
hand. Hence property, as well as population, 
is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; 
and the nation, enjo}'ing a great part of the 
blessings of Englishmen, and retaining 
several of their own happy institutions, 
might be considered, if confidence could be 
placed in human foresight, to be as yet only 
in an early stage of their progress. Yet 
there are obstructions in their way. To 
the cultivation of the soil are opposed the 
extent and the strictness of the entails ; to 
the improvement of the people, the rapidly 
increasing use of spirituous liquors, a de- 
testable practice, which includes in its con- 
sequences almost every evil, physical and 
moral. (7) The peculiarly social disposition 
of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to 
this practice. This disposition, which is 
fostered by their national songs and music, 
is perhaps characteristic of the nation at 
large. Though the source of many 
pleasures, it counteracts, by its conse- 
quences, the effects of their patience, in- 
dustry, and frugality, both at home and 
abroad, of which those especially wiio have 
witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in 
other countries must have known many 
striking instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a 
standard f mong themselves, but are tried by 
the standrrd of the nation to which they are 
united. 1'hough their habits are far from 
being flexible, yet it is evident that their 
manners uid dialect are imdergoing a rapid 
change. Even the farmers of the present 
duy appr Br to have less of the peculiarities of 
their country in their speech than the men 
of letters of the last generation. Burns, who 
never left the island, nor penetrated farther 
into England than Carlisle on the one hand, 
or Newcastle on the other, had less of the 
Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived for 
many years in the best society of England 
and France — or perhaps than Robertson, who 
wrote the English language in a style of 
•ucn purity ; and if he had been in other 
respects fitted to take a lead in the British 
House of Commons, hia pronunciation 



would neither have fettered his eloqnetvT^ 
nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking partievdar in the character of 
the Scottish peasantry, is one which it is 
hoped vvill not be lost — the strength of 
their domestic attai;hraents. The priva- 
tions to which many parents submit for the 
good of their children, and particularly to 
obtain for them instruction, which they con- 
sider as the chief good, has already been 
noticed. If their children live and prosper, 
they have their certain reward, not merely 
as witnessing, but as sharing of their pros- 
perity. Even ill the humblest ranks of the 
peasantry, the earnings of the children may 
generally be considered as at the disposal 
of their parents : perhaps ir no country is 
so large a portion of the wages of labour 
applied to the support and comfoit of those 
whose days of labour are past. A similar 
strength of attachment extends through all 
the domestic relations. Our poet partook 
largely of this amiable characteristic of his 
humble compeers : he was also strongly 
tinctm-ed with another striking feature which 
belongs to them — a partiality for his native 
country, of which many proofs may be found 
in his wTitings. This, it must be confessed, 
is a very strong and general sentiment 
among the natives of Scotland, differing, 
however, in its character, according to the 
character of the different minds in which 
it is found — in some appearing a seltish 
prejudice, in others a generous affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth 
is, indeed, common to all men. It is foui.d 
among the inhabitants of every region of 
the earth, from the arctic to the ant-arctic 
circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of 
surface, and of civilisation. To analyse this 
general sentiment, to trace it through the 
mazes of association up to the primary affec- 
tion in which it has its sour<;e, would neither 
be a difficult nor an unpleasing labour. On 
the first consideration of the subject, we 
should perhaps expect to find this attachment 
strong in proportion to the physical advan- 
tages of tAf soil ; but inquiry, far from 
confirming tins supposition, seems rather tc 
lead to an opposite conclusion. In those 
fertile regions where beneficent nature yields 
almost spontaneously whatever is necessary 
to human wants, patriotism, as well as every 
other generous sentiment, seems weak and 
languid. In countries less richly endowed, 
where the comforts, and even necessaries ol 
life, must be purchased by patient toil, the 
affections of the mind, as well as the faculties 
of the understanding, improve under exertion, 
and patriotism flourishes s^dstits kiuired 




f^f 



iliiiliiiiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliiililliiiliiiiliilllilllliiiiiiiiiii: 




LIFE OF BURNa. 



▼i^acs. Where it ia necessary to combine 
for mutual defence, ai well as for the supply 
of common wants, mutual good-will springs 
from mutual difficulties and labours, the 
social affections unfold themselves, and extend 
from the men with whom we live to the soil 
on wliich we tread. It will perhaps be 
fomid, indeed, that our affections camiot 
be originally called forth, but by objects 
capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our 
seutiments, and of returning them ; but 
when once excited, they are strengthened by 
exercise ; they are expanded by the powers 
of imagination, and seize more especially on 
those inanimate parts of creation, which 
form the theatre on which we have f rst felt 
the alternations of joy and sorrow, and first 
tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. 
If this reasoning be just, the love of our 
country, although modified, and even ex- 
tinguished in individuals by the chances and 
changes of life, may be presumed, in our 
general reasonings, to be strong among a 
people, in projiortion to their social, and more 
especially to their domestic affections. Under 
free governments it is foimd more active 
than under despotic ones, because, as the 
indi\idual becomes of more consequence in 
the commimity, the community becomes of 
more consequence to him. In small states it 
is generally more active than in large ones, 
for the same reason, and also because the 
independence of a small community being 
maintained with difficulty, and frequently 
endangered, sentiments of patriotism are 
more frequently excited. In mountainous 
countries it is generally found more active 
than in plains, because there the necessities 
of life often reqiure a closer union of the 
inhabitants ; and more especially, because 
in sucli countries, though less populous than 
plains, the inhabitants, instead of being 
scattered equally over the whole, are usually 
divided into smoJl commimities on the sides 
of their separate vallies, and on the banks 
of their respective streams — situations well 
calculated to call forth and to concentrate 
the social affections, amidst scenery that acts 
most powerfully on the sight, and makes 
a lasting impression on the memory. It 
may also be remarked, that mountainous 
countries are often peculiarly calculated to 
nourish sentiments of national pride and 
indej)endeiice, from the influence of history 
on the affections of the mind. In such 
countries itom their natural strength, inferior 
nations have maintained their independence 
against their more powerful neighbours, and 
valour, in all ages, has made its most success- 
ful efforts against oppression. Such countries 



present t!ie fields of battle where the tid? a- 
invasion was rolled back, and whereon th« 
ashes rest of those who have died in defeucd 
of their nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we 
have mentioned is doubtless more general 
and more permanent, where the scenery of 
a country, the pecuMar manners of its in- 
habitants, and the martial achievements of 
their ancestors, are embodied in national 
songs, and imited to national music. By 
this combmation, the ties that attach men to 
the land of their birth are multiplied and 
strengthened, and the images of infancy, 
strongly associating with the generous affec- 
tions, resist the influence of time, and of 
new impressions ; they often survive in-' 
countries far distant, and amidst far different 
scenes, to tlie latest period of life, to soothe 
the heart with the pleasures of memory, 
when those of hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain 
to us why among the natives of Scotland, 
even of cultivated minds, we so generally find 
a partial attachment to the land of tlieir 
birth, and why this is so strongly dis- 
coverable in the writings of Burns, \iho 
joined to the higher powers of the under- 
standing the most ardent affections. Let 
not men of reflection think it a superfluous 
labour to trace the rise and progress of a 
character like his. Born in the condition 
of a peasant, he rose, by the force of his 
mind, into distinction and influence, and in 
his works has exhibited what are so rarely 
found, the charms of original genius. ^\'ith 
a deep insight into the human heart, his 
poetry exhibits high powers of imagination 
— it displays, and as it were embalms, the 
peculiar manners of his country ; aud it 
may be considered as a monument, not to 
his own name only, but to the exjiiring 
genius of an ancient and once indepemient 
nation. In relating the incidents of his hfe, 
candour will prevent us from dwelling 
in'.idiously on those failings which justice 
forbids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly 
over his yet warm ashes, and respect the 
laurels that shelter his untimely grave. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the 
son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
himself a fai'mer there ; but, having been 
unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to 
Jamaica. He had previously, however, at- 
tracted some notice by his poetical talents 
in the \icinity where he hved ; and ha\ 1113 
pubhshed a small volume of his poems ut 




Mfg^ 




BURNS' SKETCH OF HIS OWN LD'E. 



Kilmamocls, tlii'J drew upon him more 
general attention. In consequence of the 
encouragement he received, he repaired to 
Edinburgh, and there pubhshed, by sub- 
rt;riptiun, an improved and enlarged edition 
of his poems, which met with extraordinary 
success. By the prolits arising from the 
sale of this edition, he was enabled to 
enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and 
having married a person to whom he had 
been long attached, he retired to devote the 
remauider of his life to agriculture. He 
was again, however, unsuccessful ; and, 
Rbandoning liis farm, he removed into the 
town of Dumfries, where he tilled an inferior 
ottice m the Excise, and where he termi- 
nated his life in July 1796, in liis tliirty- 
eighth year. 

The strength and originahty of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons 
distinguished in the repubhc of letters, and, 
among others, that of Dr. Moore, well 
known for his Views of Society and JNlanncrs 
on the Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, 
and various other works. To this gentle- 
man our poet addressed a letter, after his 
first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of 
his hfe, up to the period of his WTiting. 
In a composition never intended to see the 
bght, elegance, or perfect correctness of 
composition, will not be expected. These, 
however, wiU be compensated by the oppor- 
tunity of seeing our poet, as he ^ives the 
incidents of his life, unfold the pecuharities 
of his character with all the careless vigour 
Gad open smcerity of his mind. 

" Muucldine, 2nd August, 1787. 
"Sir. — For some months past I have 
been rambling over the ccmitry, but I am 
now confined with some lingering complaints, 
originating, is I take it, m the stomach. 
To divert my spirits a little in this miser- 
able fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to 
give you a history of myself. My name 
has made some little noise in this country 
— you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I 
think a faithful account of what character 
of a man I am, and how I came by that 
character, may perhaps amuse you in an itlle 
moment. I will give you an honest narra- 
tive, though I know it wiU be often at my 
own expense ; for I assure you sir, I have, 
like Solomon, whose character, excepting in 
the triflmg affair of wisdom, I sometimes 
think I resemble — I liave, I say, like him 
turned my eyes to hehold madness and folly, 
and, like him, too frequently shaken hands 
with their intoxicatiu^ friendship. * « • 



After you have perused these pages, should 
you think them tritling and impertinent, I 
only beg leave to tell you, that the poor 
author wrote them under some t\iitclnng 
qualms of conscience, arising fi'om suspicion 
that he was doing what he ought not to 
do — a predicament he has more than onca 
been in before." 

"I have not the most distant pjetensions 
to assume that character which the pye- 
coated guardians of escntclieons call a 
gentleman. "When at Edinburgh last \rinter 
I got acquainted in the Herald's Ottice ; 
and, looking through that granary of 
honours, I thei'e found almost every name 
in the kingdom ! but for me, 

' My ancient but isfnoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since thfl 

flood.' 
Gules, Purpurc, Argent, &c., quite disowned 
me." 

My father was of the Jtorth of Scotland, 
the son of a farmer, and was th.'oira by early 
misfortunes on the v.orld at large, v'ift-e, 
after many years' wanderings and sojom'ii- 
ings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of 
observation and experience, to which I am 
indebted for most of my little pretensions 
to wisdom. I have met with few who un- 
derstood men, their manners, and their ways, 
equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly- 
integrity, and headlong migovernable irasci- 
bihty, are disquahfying circumstances, con- 
sequently I was born a very poor man's son. 
For the first six or seven years of my life, my 
I father was gardener to a worthy gentlem;ui 
of small estate in the neighbourhood of 
Ayr. Had he continued iu that station, I 
must have marched off to be one of the little 
underlings about a fiirm-house ; but it was 
his dearest wish and prayer to have it in 
his power to keep his children under M» 
own eye till they could discern between 
good and evil ; so, with with the assistanca 
of his generous master, my father ventured 
on a small farm on his estate. At those 
years 1 was by no means a favoiuite with 
any body. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy seme, 
thing in my disposition, and an enthusiastic 
idiotic piety. I say idiutic piety, because I 
was then but a child. Though it cost the 
schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an 
excellent Enghsh scholar, and by the tiia? 
I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a 
critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. 
In my uifant and boyish days, too, I owed 
much to an old woman who resided in the 
family, remarkable for her ignorance, ere. 
duhty, aud supeidtitiou. i'he iia^ I sup- 



iiiiiniiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiHii!iiiiiiiiininii!Hii|i'!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii; 







mm^^' 




iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'^'^ 



10 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



pose, the largest collection ib the country 
of tales aud songs coucerniiig devils, ghosts, 
fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, 
kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, 
apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons, aud other trumpery. This 
cidtivatcd the latent seeds of poetry, but had 
go strong an effect on my imagination, that 
to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
sometimes keep a sharp iook-out in sus- 
picious places ; and though nobody can be 
more sceptical than I am in such matters, 
yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to 
shake off these idle terrors. The earliest 
composition that I recollect taking pleasure 
in was The Vision of Alirza, and a hjTnn 
of Addison's, beginning, " How are thy 
gervauts blest, oh Lord ! " I particularly 
remember one half-stanza, which was music 
to my boyish ear : — 

' For tlioush on dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave.' 
I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The 
two first books I ever read in private, and 
whicli gave me more pleasure than any 
two books I ever read since, were the Life 
of Hannibal, aud TheHistory of Sir ^^'ilham 
Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas 
Buch a turn, that I used to strut in rap- 
tures up and down after the recruiting drum 
and bagpipe, aud wish myself tall enough 
to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace 
poured a Scottish prejudice into my venis, 
which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest." 

"Polemical divinity about this time was 
putting the country half mad ; and I, ambi- 
tious of shining in conversation parties on 
Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c., 
used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle 
Calvinism with so much heat and indiscre- 
tion, that I raised a hue aud cry of heresy 
ikgainst me, wliich has not ceased to this 
hour." 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- 
tage to me. My social disposition, when 
not checked by some modifications of spirited 
pride, was, hke our Catechism definition of 
infinitude, without bounds or limits. I 
formed several connections with other 
younkers who possessed superior advan- 
tages, the yuunyling actors, who were busy 
in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of hfe, 
where, alas ! I w as destined to drudge 
behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this green aga that our yovuig gentry have 
• just sense of the immense distance be- 
tweca tUcm aud their ragged playfellows. 



It takes a few dashes into the world, to p^'* 
the young great man that proper, decent, 
unnoticiug disregard for the ])oor insigni. 
ficant, stupid devils, the me<;hamcs and 
peasantry aromid him, who Mere perhaps 
born in the same village. My young supe- 
riors never insulted the clouterhj appearance 
of my plough-boy carcase, the two e.xtremea 
of wiiich were often exposed to all the in- 
clemencies of all seasons. They would give 
me stray volumes of books : among them, 
even then, I could pick up some observa- 
tions ; and one, whose heart I am sure not 
even the Munmj Beyum scenes have tainted, 
helped me to a little French. Parting with 
these my young friends and bciiefiictors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or 
\\'est Indies, was often to me a sore attlic- 
tion ; but I was soon called to more serious 
evils. My father's generous master died ; 
the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and tc 
clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands 
of a factor, who sat for the picture I have 
dra«Ti of one in my tale of Twa Pogs. 
INIy father was advanced in life when ha 
married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; 
and he, worn out by early hardsliips, was 
unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon 
irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
a freedom in his lease in two years more ; 
and to weather these two years, we re- 
trenched our expenses. We lived very 
poorly. I was a dexterous ploughman, for 
my age; and the next eldest to me was a 
brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough 
very well, and help me to thrash the corn. 
A novel-writer might perhaps have viewed 
these scenes with some satisfaction, but so 
did not I; my indignation yet boils at tiie 
recollection of the scoundrel factor's inso- 
lent, threatening letters, which used to 
set us all in tears." 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom 
of hermit, with the unceasmg toil of a 
galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth 
year; a httle before which period I first 
committed the sin of rhyme. You know 
our country custom of coupling a m:iii 
and woman together as partners in tha 
labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn 
my partner was a bewitcliing creature a 
year younger than myself. ]My scarcity oi 
English denies me the power of doing hei 
justice in that language; but you know 
the Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, 
sweet, sonsie lass. In short, sht altoge- 
ther unwittingly to herself, initiated me in 
that delicious passion which, in spite of acid 
disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
book-worm plulosophy, I hold to be the lirsl 







^^d 



6^ 



BURNS' LIBRAE 7. 



IV 



of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below ! How she caught the contagion, I 
cannot tell ; you medical people talk much 
of infection from breailiing the same air, the 
touch, &c., but I never expressly said I loved 
her. Indeed I did not know myself why I 
liked so much to loiter behind with her 
when returning in the evening from oiur 
labours ; why the tones of her voice made 
my heart-strings thrill like an /Eohan harp ; 
and particularly, why my pulse beat such a 
fiirious ratan when I looked and lingered 
over her little hand to pick out the cruel 
nettle-stings and thistles. Amor^ her other 
love-inspiring quahties, she sang sweetly ; 
and it was her favourite reel to which I at- 
tempted giving an embodied vehicle m rhyme. 
(8) I was not so presumptuous as to imagine 
that I could make verses like printed ones, 
composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; 
but my girl sang a song, which was said 
to be composed by a small country laird's son^ 
on one of his father's maids, with whom he 
was in love, and 1 saw no reason why I might 
not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that 
he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his 
fatlier living in the moor-lauds, he had no 
more scholar-craft than myself." 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; 
wliich at times have been my only, and till 
w.thin the last twelve months^ have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, 
when he entered on a larger farm, about ten 
miles farther in the country. The nature of 
the bargain he made was such as to throw 
a httle ready money into his hands at the 
commencement of his lease ; otherwise the 
affair would have been impracticable. For 
four years we lived comfortably here ; but a 
difference commencing between him and his 
landlord as to terms, after three years' tossing 
and whirlmg in the vortex of litigation, my 
father was just saved from the horrors of 
a jail by a consumption, which, after two 
years' promises, kindly stepped in, and 
carried him away, to where the wicked cease 
from troubliiifi, and the weary are at rest." 

" It is during the time that we lived on 
this farm that my little story is most 
eventful. I was, at the beginning of this 
period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward 
boy ui the parish — no solitaire was less 
acquamted ^^'ith the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered 
from Salmon's and Guthrie's geographical 
grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of 
modern manners, of literature and criticism, 
I got from the Spectator. These, with 
Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 



Tull and Dickson on Agricalt'jre, the Pan- 
theon, Locke's Essay on the Human Under- 
standing, Stackhouse's History of the liible^ 
Justice's British Gardener's Directory, 
Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
Taylor's Scriptiu-e Doctrine of Original Sin, 
A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole 
of my reading. The collection of songs was 
my vade niectun. I pored over them driving 
my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, 
verse by verse — carefully noting the true, 
tender or sublime, from affectation and 
fustian. I am convinced I owe to tliis 
practice much of my critic craft, such as it 
is." 

"In my seventeenth year, to give my 
manners a brush, I went to a country 
dancmg school. My father had an unac- 
countable antipathy against these meetings, 
and my going was, what to this moment I 
repent, in opposition to Ida vishes. My 
father, as I said before, was subject to 
strong passions ; from that instance of dis- 
obedience in me he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which I believe was one cause of the 
dissipation which marked my succeeding 
years. I say dissipation, comparatively with 
the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity, 
of Presbyterian country hfe ; for though 
the Will o' Wisp meteors of thoughtless 
whim were almost the sole lights of my 
path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue 
kept me for several years afterwards within 
the line of innocence. The great misfortune 
of my life was to want an aim. I had felt 
early some stirrings of ambition, but they 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I saw my 
father's situation entailed on me perpetuail 
labour. The only two openings by which 
I could enter the temple of fortune, was 
the gate of niggardly economy, or the path 
of little, chicaning bargain-making. The first 
is so contracted an aperture, I never coidd 
squeeze myself into it ; the last I always 
hated^there was contamination in the vei-y 
entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view 
in hfe, with a strong appetite for sociability, 
as well from native hilarity as from a pride 
of observation and remark — a constitutional 
melancholy or hypochondriasm that made 
me fly to sohtude ; add to these mcentives 
to social hfe, my reputation for bookish 
knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, 
and a strength of thought, something like 
the rudiments of good sense, and it will not 
seem surprismg that I was generally a 
welcome guest where I visited, or any great 
wonder that, always where two or three met 




IHIII'inniiiii 







12 



LIFE OF BDUNS. 



together, thnre was I among them. But 
far beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
was un pe7ichant a I' adorable moitie clu genre 
humain. My heart was completely tinder, 
and was eternally lighted up by some goddess 
or other ; and as in every other warfare in 
this world, myfortune was various.soraetimes 
I was received wth favour, and sometimes 
I was mortified ^ith a renulse. At the plough, 
scythe, or reaphook, I feared no competitor, 
mid thus I set absolute want at defiance ; 
and as I \iever cared farther for my labours 
than while I was in actual exercise, I spent 
the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love- 
adventure ■oithout an assisting confidant. 
1 possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid 
dexterity, that recommended me as a projier 
second on these occasions ; and, I dare say, 
I felt as miich pleasure in being in the secret 
of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
as ever did statesman in knowng the in- 
trigues of half the courts of Europe. (9) 
The very goose-feather in my hand seems 
to know instinctively the well-worn path of 
my imagination, the favourite theme of my 
song, and is with difficulty restrained from 
giving you a couple of paragraphs on the 
love-ad\entures of my compeers, the humble 
inmates of the farm-house and cottage ; but 
the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, 
baptise these things by the name of follies. 
(10) To the sons and daughters of labour and 
poverty, they are matters of the most serious 
nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen 
interview, the tender farewell, are the 
greatest and most delicious parts of their 
enjoyments." 

" Another circumstance in my life which 
made some alteration in my mind and man- 
ners was, that 1 spent my nineteenth sum- 
mer on a smuggling coast, a good distance 
from home, at a noted school, to learn 
mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in 
which I made a pretty good progress. But 
I made a greater progress in the knowledge 
of mankind. The contraband trade was at 
that time very successfid, and it sometimes 
happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot 
and roaring dissipation were till this time 
new to me ; but I was no enemy to social 
hfe. Here, though I learnt to till my glass, 
and to mix without fear in a drunken 
iquabble, yet I went on with a high hand 
with my geometry, till the sun entered 
Virgo, a month ^ hich is always a carnival 
in my bosom, when a charming filette, who 
Uved next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 



from the sphere of my studies. I, howevcs; 
struggled on with my sines and cosines fol 
a few days more ; but, stepping into the 
garden one charming noon to take the suu's 
altitude, there I met my angel, 

'Like Proserpine, gathering flo'fl era, 

Ilerself a fairer flower ' 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The reniaiiiing week I 
staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
my soul about her, or steal out to meet 
her ; and the two last nights of my stay in 
the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, 
the image of this modest and innocent girl 
had kept me guiltless." 

" 1 returned home very considerably im- 
proved. My reading was etilarged with the 
very important adthtion of Thomson's and 
Shen stone's Works. I had seen Imraaa 
nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several 
of my school-fellows to keep up a literary 
correspondence with me. This improved me 
in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the Mits of Queen Anne's reign, 
and I pored over them most devoutly ; I 
kept copies of any of my own letters that 
pleased me; and a comparison between 
them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents, flattered my vanity. I 
carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings' worth of business iu 
the world, yet almost every post brought me 
as many letters as if I had been a broad 
plodding son of day-book and ledger." 

" My life flowed on much in the same 
course till my twenty-third year. Vive 
I' amour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole 
principles of action. The addition of two 
more authors to my library gave me great 
pleastu'e ; Sterne and M'Kenzie — Tristram 
Shandy and The INlau of Feeling — were 
my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a 
darling walk for my mind, but it was only 
indulged iu according to the humoiur of the 
hour." 

" I had usually half a dozen or more pieces 
on hand ; I took up one or other, as it 
suited the momentary tone of the mind, and 
dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
My passions, when once lighted up, raged 
like so many de^^l3, till they got vent in 
rhyme ; and then the conning over my 
verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
None of the rhjanes of those days are in 
print, except Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of 
my printed pieces ; Tlie Dea'.h of Poor 
Mailie, John Barleycorn, and songs first, 
second, and third. (11) Song second waa 
the ebidlition of that passion which eudcj 
(i<-M»iie-meutioued school-busiuesa" 







LtrCKLESS FARMING SPECULATION, 



la 



"Jly twenly-third year was to me an im- 
portant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing some- 
thing- in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a 
neigiibouring' to\vTi (Irvine) to learn his 
trade. This was an unlucky affair. My * * * ; 
and, to finish the whole, as we were giving 
a welcome carousal to the new-year, the shop 
took tire, and burnt to ashes,and I was left, 
like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme : 
the clouds of misfortune were gathering 
thick round my father's head; and, what 
was worst of all, he was visibly far gone m 
a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, 
a belle fille whom I adored, and who had 
pledged her soul to meet me in the field of 
matrimony, jilted me, vath peculiar circum- 
stances of mortitication. The finishing evil 
that brought up the reai of this infernal file, 
was my constitutional melancholy being in- 
creased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to 
be envied by the hopeless wretches who have 
got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye ac- 
cursed !" 

" From this adventure I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship 1 
formed with a young fellow, a very noble 
character, but a hapless son of misfortune. 
He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but 
a great man in the neighbourhood taking 
him under his patronage, gave him a genteel 
.education, ^\ith a view of bettering his situa- 
tion in life. The patron dying just as he 
was ready to launch out into the world, 
the poor fellow in despair went to sea, 
where, after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acquainted with 
him, he had been set on shore by an Ame- 
rican privateer, on the wild coast of Con- 
uaught, stripped of everything. I cannot 
quit this poor fellow's story without adding, 
that he is at this time master of a largC 
West-Indiaraan belonging to the Thames." 

" His mind was fraught with indepen- 
dence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. 
I loved and admired him to a degree of 
enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate 
him. In some measure I succeeded — I had 
pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
proper channels. His kno.vledge of the 
world was vastly superior to mine, and I 
was all attentioii to learn. He was the only 
man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
myself, where woman was the presiding star ; 
but he spoke of illicit love with the levity 
ot a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 
Witli horror. (12) Here his frieudsliip did 



me a mischief; and the conse(;ueTice wai 
that, soon after I resumed the plough, 1 
wrote the Poet's Welcome. (13) My read- 
ing only hicreased, while in this towTi, by 
two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of 
Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me 
some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
up ; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish 
Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding 
lyre with emulating vigour. When my 
father died, his all went among the hell- 
hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; 
but we made a shift to collect a little money 
in the family amongst us, wth which to 
keep us together; my brother and I took a 
neighbouring farm. My brother wanted 
my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
social and amorous madness ; but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was 
far my superior." 

" I entered on this farm with a fuU reso 
lution. Come, go to, I will be vsise ! I reaa 
farming books — I calcidated crops — I at- 
tended markets — and, in short, in spite of 
the devil, and the Korld, and the fiesh, I 
believe I should have been a wise man ; 
but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second, from a late 
harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
set all my wisdom, and I returned, like the 
do<i to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, 
to her icallowing in the mire." 

" I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first 
of my poetic oifspring that saw the light, 
was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel 
between two reverend Calvinists, both ot 
them dramatis persona" in my Holy Fair. 
I had a notion myself that the piece had 
some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave 
a copy of it to a friend who was very fond 
of such things, and told him that I coidd 
not guess who was the author of it, but that 
I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, it 
met with a roar of applause. (14) Holy 
Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, 
and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that 
they held several meetings to look over theiit 
spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might 
be pointed against profane writers. Un- 
luckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
another side, within point-blankshot of 
tiieir heaviest metaL This is the unfor- 
tunate story that gave rise to my printed 
poem — The Lament. Tlris was a most me- 
lancholy afl'air, which I cannot yet bear to 
reflect on, and had very nearly given ma 
one or two of the ^riucijial c^uaUfit^utious foT 



14 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



a plac« amour those who have lost the 
chart, and nistaken the reckoning, of 
rationahty. I gave up ray part of the farm 
to my brother — 'ji truth it was only nomi- 
nally mine — and made what little prepara- 
tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, 
before leaving my native country for ever, I 
resoh ed to p iblish my poems. I weighed 
my productions as impartially as was in my 
power : I thought they had merit, and it 
was a delicious idea that I should be called 
a clever fellow even though it shi-uld ne\er 
reach my ears — a poor negro-driver ; or per- 
haps a victim to that uihospitable clime, 
and gone to the world of spirits ! I can 
truly say, that pauvre iticonnu as I then was, 
I had pretty n.iarly as high an idea of myself 
and cf my works as I have at this moment, 
when the public has decided in their favour. 
It evrr was my opinion, that the mistakes 
and blunders, both in a rational and religious 
point of view, of which we see thou.-^ands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves. To know myself had been all 
along my constant study. I \\eiglie(l myself 
alone — I balanced myself with others — I 
watched every means of information, to see 
how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet ; — I studied assiduously Nature's 
design in my formation — where the lights 
"and shades in my character were intended. 
I was pretty confident my poems would 
meet with some applause (15) ; but, at the 
worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen 
the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West-Indian scenes make me forget neg- 
lect. I threw off six hundred copies, of 
which I had got subscriptions for about 
three hundred and fifty. ]My vanity was 
highly gratified by the reception I met with 
from the public; and, besides, I pocketed, 
all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. 
This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon 
as I was master of nine guineas, the price 
of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a 
st<"erage-j)assage in the first ship that was 
to sail from the Clyde ; for 

'Hungry ruin had me in the wind.' 
" I had been for some days skulking 
from covert to covert, under all the terrors 
of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had un- 
coujiled the merciless pack of the law at my 
heels. I had taken the last farewell of my 
few friends ; my chest was on the road to 
Greenock ; I had composed the last song I 
shoidd ever measure in Caledonia — The 
Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast — when a 
ktter from Dr. Blackl-vik to a friend of 



mine overthrew all my schemes, by openinj 
new prospects to my poetic ambitioii. Th» 
doctor belonged \o a set of critics for whose 
apjilause I had not dared to hope. Ilia 
opinion, that I would meet with encourage- 
ment in Edinburgh for a second editioUj 
fired me so much, that away I posted for 
that city, without a single acquaintance, or 
a single letter of introduction. The baneful 
Btar that had so long shed its blasting influ- 
ence in my zenith, for once made a revolu- 
tion to the nadir; and a kind Providence 
placed me under the patronage of one of 
the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. 
Ouhlie moi, Grand Bieu, si Jamais je 
I'ouhUe ! " 

"I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 
I was in a new world ; I mingled among 
many classes of men, but aU of them new to 
me, and I was all attention to catc'i the 
characters and the manners I'wing as the;/ 
rlne. WTiether I have profited, time will 
show. * * * " 

"Jly most respectful compliments to 
Miss "\V. (16) Her very elegant and friendly 
letter I cannot answer at present, as my 
presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I 
set out to-morrow." (17) 

At the period of our poet's death, his 
brother, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that 
he had himself written the forgoing narra- 
tive of his life while in AjTsliire ; and 
having been applied to by Mrs. Dmilop for 
some memoirs of liis brother, he complied 
with her request in a letter, from which the 
following narrative is chiefly extracted. 
AMien Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the 
letter of our poet to Dr. jMoore, he made 
some annotations upon it, which shall be 
noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was bom on the 25th day 
of January 1759, in a small house abotit 
two miles from the town of Ayr, and within 
a few himdred yards of Alloway church, 
which his poem of Tam o' Shanter haa 
rendered immortal. (18) The name, which 
the poet and his brother modernised into 
Burns, was originally Burnes or Bm-ness. 
Their father, William Burnes, was the son 
of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and haa 
received the education common in Scotland 
to persons in his condition of life ; he could 
read and write, and had some knowledge of 
arithmetic. His family having fallen into 
reduced circumstances, lie was compelled to 
leave his home in his nineteenth year, and 
turned his steps towards the south, iu quest 
of a Uvehhood. The same necessity attended 
his elder brother Robert. "I have often 



WILLIAM BURNES OR l^PRNS, 



IS 



Maid my father" (says Gilbert Burns, in | tolerably well (20), and to write « little. 
his letter to Mrs. Dunlop) "describe the He taught, us, too, the English grauunar. 
anguish of mhid he felt when they parted I was too young to pro tit much froia his 
on the top of a hill on the confines of their lessons in grammar, but Robert made some 
native place, each going off his several way proficiency ia it — a circumstance of cou 
in search of new adventures, and scarcely j sisiderable weight in the unfolding of hia 



knowing whither he went. My father un 
dertook to act as a gardener, and shaped 
his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 
hard when he could get work, passing 
through a variety of difficulties. Still, how- 
ever, he endeavoured to spare something 
for the support of his aged parent ; and 1 
recollect hearing him mention his having 
Bent a bank-note for this purpose, when 
money of that kind was so scarce in Kiu- 
cardineshire, that they scarcely knew how 
to employ it when it arrived." From Edin- 
burgh, William Burnes passed westward 
into the comity of Ayr, where he engaged 
himself as a gardener to the laird of i'airly, 
with whom he lived two years ; then chang- 
ing his service for that of Crawford of 
Doonside. At length, being desirous of 
settling in life, he took a perpetual lease of 
seven acres of land from Dr. Campbell, 
p'lysician in Ayr, with the view of com- 
mencing nurseryman and public gardener ; 
and, having built a house upon it with liis 
own hands, married, in December, 1757, 
Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who 
Btih survives. (19) The first fruit of this 
marriage was Robert, the subject of these 
memoirs, born on the 25th of January, 1759, 
as has already been mentioned. Before 
WOliam Burnes had made much progress 
in preparing liis nursery, he was withdrawn 
from that undertaking by ]\Ir. Ferguson, 
who purchased the estate of Doonhulm, in 
the iininediate neighbourhood, and engaged 
hiin as his gardener and overseer ; and tiiis 
was his situation when our poet was born. 
Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he 
lived in his own house, his wife managing 
her family and her little dairy, which cou- 
bisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three 
Biilc!i-cows ; and this state of miambitious 
content contmued till the year 17U(J. His 
eon Robert was sent by liim in his sixtn year 
to a school at Alloway Milu, about a mile 
distant, taught by a person of the name of 
Campbell ; but this teacher being in a few 
m uiths appointed master of the workhouse 
Bt Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with 
Borne other heads of families, engaged Jolui 
Mui'doch hi his stead. The education of our 
poet, and of his brother Gdbert, was m com- 
mon; and of their proficiency under Mr. Mur- 
doch, wc have the follow uig accoimt : — 
•With him we learnt to read Eiighsh 



genius and character ; as he soon became 
remarkable for the fluency and correctness 
of his expression, and read the few hooks 
that came in his way with much pleasure 
and improvement : for even then he was a 
reader when he coidd get a book. jMiirdoch. 
whose library at that time had no grea'i 
variety in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, 
which was the first book he read (the school- 
books excepted), and almost the only one 
he had an opportunity of reading wliile he 
was at school; for The Life of Wallace, 
wliich he classes with it in one of his letters 
to you, he did not see for some years after 
wards, \ dien he borrowed it from the black 
smith who shod oiur horses." 

It appears that William Burnes. approved 
himself greatly in the service of j\lr. Fer. 
guson, by his intelligence, industry, and 
integrity. In consetiuence of this, with a 
view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson 
leased him a farm, of which we have the 
following accomit : — 

" The farm was upwards of seventy 
acres (21) (between eighty and ninety, Eu- 
ghsh statute measure], the rent of wliich 
was to be forty pounds annually for the 
first six years, and afterwards forty-fi\e 
pounds. My father endeavoured to sell his 
leasehold property, for the purpose of stock- 
ing thi.s farm, but at that time was unable, 
and ^Ir. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds 
for that puipose. He reraoved to his new 
situatioii at Whitsuntide, 17(i6. It was, I 
think, not above two year« after this, that 
Jliirdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part 
of the country ; and there being no school 
near us, and our little services beuig usefid 
on the farm, my father undertook to teach 
us arithmetic in the winter e\enings, by 
candle-light ; and in this way my two eldest 
sisters got all the education they received. 
I remember a circumstance that happened 
at this time, which, though trifling in 
itself, IS fresh in my memory, and may 
serve to illustrate the eai\y character of my 
brother. Murdoch came to spend a night 
with us, and to take his leave when ho 
was about to go into Carrick. He brought 
us as 1 present and memorial of him, a 
small compen(hum of English Grammar, and 
the tragedy of Titus Ajidrouicus, and, by 
way of passing the evening, he began to 
read the play aloud. We wei j all attention 



16 



LIFE OF BUliXS. 



to purchase The 'Realty Tteiiknner, o» 
Tradesman's Sure Guide, and a book to 
teach him to ■WTile letters. Luckily, in 
place of The Complete Letter- Writer, he got 
by mistake a small collection of letters by 
the most eminent writers, with a few 
sensible directions for attaining an easy 
epistolary style. This book was to 
Robert of the greatest consequence. 
It inspired him with a strong desire to 
excel in letter-writing, while it furnished 
him with models by some of the first writen 
in our language." 

" JMy brother was about thirteen or 
fourteen, when my father, regretting that 
we WTote so ill, sent us, week about, during 
a Slimmer quarter, to the parish school of 
DalrjTuple, which, though between two or 
three miles distant, was the nearest to us, 
that we might have an opportunity of 
raanner of living at Mount 01i)ihant ; we I remedying this defect. About this time 
jurely saw any body but the members of our a bookish acquaintance of my father's pro- 
O'OTi family. Tiiese were no boys of our cured ns a reading of two volumes of 
own age, or neat ^t, in the neiahbourhood. | Eichardson's Pamela, which was the first 
indeed, the greatest part of the land in the novel we read, and the only part of Richard- 
vicinity was at that time possessed by ' son's works my brother was acquainted with 
shopkeepers, and people of tliat stamp, who till towards the_ period of his commencing 
had retired from business, or who kept their | author. Till that time, too, he remained 
farm in the country, at the same time that I miacquainted with Fielding, with Smollett 
they followed business in tovni. ]\Jy father I (two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
•was for some time almost the only com- i and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle, ex- 



for some time, till presently the whole party 
was dissolved in tears. A female ui the 
play (I have but a confused remembrance of 
it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongue 
cut out, and then was insultingly desired to 
call for water to wash her hands. At this, 
in an agony of distress, we with one voice 
desired he would read no more. INIy father 
observed, that if we would not hear it out. 
it would be needless to leave the play with 
vm, Robert replied, that if it was left he 
jFOiild burn it. My father was going to 
chide him for this ungrateftd return to his 
tutor's kindness ; but Alurdoch interfered, 
declaring that he liked to see so much 
sensibility ; and he left the School for Love, 
a comedy, translated I think from the 
French, in its place." (22) 

" Nothing," continues Gilbert Bums, 
" could be more retired than our general 



^lauion we had. He conversed familiarly on 
wll subjects with us, as if we had been 
S)en ; and was at great pains, while we 
nccompanied him m the labi^urs of the 



cepted), with Hume, with Robertson, and 
almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect, indeed, my father 
borrowed a volume of English history from 



farm, to lead the conversation to such I ]\'Ir. Hamilton of BourtreehiD's gardener, 
•ubjects as might tend to increase our I It treated of the reign of James I., and his 
knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. I unfortunate son Charles, but I do not know 
He borrowed Salomon's Geographical Gram- | who was the author ; all that I remember 
mar for us, and endeavoured to make us j of it is something of Charles's conversation 
acquainted with the situation and history I with his children. About this time, Mur- 
of the different countries of the world ; doch. our former teacher, after having been 
while, from a book-society in Ayr, he pro- in different places in the coimtry, and having 
cured for us the reading of Durham's Physico | taught a school some time in Dumfries, 
and Astro-Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of I came to be the established teacher of the 
God in the Creation, to give us some idea j Enghsh language in Ayr, a circumstance of 
of astronomy and natural history. Robert considerable consequence to us. The re- 



read all these books with an avidity and 
industry scarcely to be equalled. My 
father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's 
History of the Bible, then lately jnib- 
lished by James IMeuros in Kilmarnock : 
from this Robert collected a competent 
knowiedge of ancient history ; for no book 
was so voluminous as to slacken his in- 
dustry, or so antiquated as to damp his 
researches. A brotlv^r of my mother, who 
had hved with us some time, and liad learned 
•ome arithmetic by our winter evening's 
(BuJIe. went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, 



merabrance of my father's former friend- 
ship, and liis attachment to my brother, 
made him do every thing in his power for 
our improvement. He sent us Pope's 
works, and some other poetry, the first 
that we had an opportunity of reading, 
excepting what is contained in the English 
Collection, and in the volume of the 
Edinburgh Magazine for 1772; excepting 
also those excellent new songs that are 
hawked about the country in baskets, or 
exposed on stalls in the streets." 

"The summer after we had been at 







BURNS STUDIES LATIN. 



17 



Dalrymple school, my father sent Robert 
to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, 
vnth his former teaclier. He had been 
there only one week, when he was obliged 
to return to assist at the harvest. When 
the harvest was over, he went back to 
school, where he remained two weeks ; 
tnd this completes the account of his 
■chool education, excepting one summer 
quarter, some time afterwards, that he 
attended the parish school of Kirkoswald 
(where ke lived with a brother of my 
mother's), to learn survejing." 

" During the two last weeks that he 
was with Murdoch, he himself was engaged 
in learning French (23), and he communi- 
cated the instructions he received to my 
brother, who, when he returned, brought 
home with him a French dictionary and 
grammar, and the Adventures of Telemachus 
in the original. In a little whOe, by the 
assistance of these books, he had acquired 
such a knowledge of the language, as to 
read and understand any French author in 
prose. Tliis was considered as a sort of 
prodigy, and through the medium of Mur- 
doch, procured him the acquaintance of 
several lads in Ayr, who were at that 
time gabbUng French, and the notice of 
some families, particularly that of Dr. 
Malcolm, where a knowledge of French 
was a recommendation." 

" Observing the facility with which he 
had acquired the French language, I\Ir. 
Robinson, the established writing-master 
in AjT, and Mr. Murdoch's particular 
friend, having himself acquired a con- 
siderable knowledge of the Latin language, 
by his own industry, without ever having 
learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
the same attempt, promising him every 
assistance in his power. Agreeably to this 
advice, he purchased the Rudiments of the 
Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry 
and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. 
He frequently returned to his Rudiments 
on any little chagrin or disappointment, 
particularly in his love affairs; but the 
Latin seldom predominated more than « 
day or two at a time, or a week at most. 
Observing, himself, the ridicule that would 
attach to this sort of conduct if it were 
known, he made two or three humorous 
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now 
recollect, but they all ended, 

' So I'll to my Latin again.' 

"Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a 

principal means of my brother's improve- 

Worthy man! though foreign to 

purpose, I cannot take leave 



of him without tracing his future history. 
He continued for some years a respected 
and usefid teacher at A\t, till one e\euhig 
that ke had been overtaken in liquor, In 
happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully 
of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who 
had not paid him that attention to which 
he thought himself entitled. la Ayr he 
migl* as well have spoken blasphemy. He 
found it proper to give up his appoint- 
ment. He went to London, where he stiU 
lives, a private teacher of French. H« 
has been a considerable time married, and 
keeps a shop of stationery wares." (24) 

"The father of Dr. Paterson, now phy- 
sician at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of 
Aberdeenshire, and was one of the estalv. 
lished teachers in Ayr when my father 
settled in the neighbourhood. He early 
recognised my father as a fellow native o< 
the north of Scotland, and a certain degrei^ 
of intimacy subsisted between them durnijj 
Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, hiw 
widow, who is a very genteel woman, and 
of great worth, delighted in doing what sh« 
thought her husband would have wished 
to have done, and assiduously kept up her 
attentions to all his acquaintances. She 
kept aUve the intimacy with our family, by 
frequently inviting my father and mother 
to her house on Sundays, when she met 
them at church." 

" When she came te know my brother's 
passion for books she kindly oflered us the 
use of her husband's library, and from her 
we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of 
Homer, and several other books that were 
of use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm 
my ftither possessed in the parish of Ayr, 
is almost the very poorest soil I know of 
in a state of cultivation. A stronger 
proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in 
the \alue of lands in Scotland, it was let; 
after a considerable sum laid out in im- 
proving it by the proprietor, a few years 
ago, five pounds per annum lower than the 
rent paid for it by my father, thirty years 
ago. My father, in consequence of this, 
soon came into difficiUties, which were 
increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
by accidents and disease. To the buffet- 
ings of misfortime, we could only oppose 
hard labour and the most rigid economy. 
We lived very sparingly. For several years 
butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, 
while all the members of the family exerted 
themselves to the utmost of their strength, 
and rather beyond it, in the labours of th« 
farm. My brother, at the age of thirtee* 




iiiiiiiiniii!i!iiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiniiH'H;i:!iiniiii!iniiiiiiiiiiiiii!ii!iiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii; 
^0 



^.|PP 




18 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



assisted in thrashins: the crop of com, and 
at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no liired servant, male 
or female. The anguish of mind we felt 
at our tender years, under these straits 
fend difficulties, was very great. To think 
of our father grossing old (for he was now 
above fifty), broken dowii with the long- 
cciitinued fatigues of his life, with a \^ife 
and five other children, and in a declining 
state of circumstances — these reflections 
produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt 
not but tlie hard labour and sorrow of this 
period of his life, was in a great measure 
the cause of that depression of spirits with 
which Robert was so often afflicted through 
his whole life afterwards. At this time he 
was almost constantly afflicted in the even- 
ings with a dull headache, which, at a future 
period of liis life, was exchanged for a 
palpitation of the heart, and a threatening 
of fainting and suffocation in his bed in 
the night-time. 

" By a stipidation in my father's lease, 
he had a right to throw it up, if he thought 
proper, at the end of every sixth year. He 
attempted to fix himself in a better form 
at the end of the first six years, b»it failing 
in that attempt, he continued where he was 
for six years more. He then took the 
farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the rent 
of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of 

Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in 

Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liver- 
pool. He removed to this farm on Whit- 
sunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
yea.'s. No writing had ever been made out 
of the conditions of the lease ; a mis- 
understanding took place respecting them ; 
the subjects in dispute were submitted to 
arbitration, and the decision involved my 
fiither's affairs in ruin. He lived to know 
of this decision, but not to see any execution 
in consequence of it. He died on the 
13th of February, 1784." 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton 
parish (extending from the 19th to the 
i!Oth of my brother's age), were not m.Trked 
hy much literary improvement ; but during 
this time, the foundation was laid of certain 
habits in my brother's character, which 
afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which malice and en\'y have taken delight 
to enlarge on. Though when young he 
was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
with women, yet, when he approached man- 
kood, his attachment to their society became 
rery strong, and he was constantly the 
tietidt of some fair enslaver. The symp- 



toms of his passion wev« nften such at 
nearly to equal tho.se of the celebrated 
Sapjiho. I never indeed knew that he 
fainted, sunk, and died axvay ; but the 
agitations of his mind and body exceeded 
anything of the kind I ever knew in real 
life. He had always a particidai jealousy 
of people who were richer than liimself, or 
^ho had more consequence in life. His 
love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of 
this description. When he selected any 
one out of the sovereignty of his go(jd 
pleasure, to whom he should pay his par- 
ticular attention, she was instantly invested 
with St sufficient stock of charms, out of 
the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; 
and there was often a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivator, as she appeared 
to others, and as she seemed when invested 
in the attributes he gave her. One generally 
reigned paramount in his affections ; but aa 
Yorick's affections flowed out toward Ma- 
dame de L — at the reraise door, while the 
eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other 
attractions, which formed so many under- 
plots in the drama of his love. As theso 
connections were governed by the strictest 
rules of virtue and modesty (from which 
he never deviated till he reached liis 23rd 
year), he became anxious to be in a situa- 
tion to marry. This was not likely soon to 
be the case while he remained a farmer, as 
the stocking of the farm required a sum of 
money he had no probability of being 
master of for a great while. He began, 
therefore, to think of trying some other line 
of life. He and I had for several years taken 
land of my father for the purpose of raising 
flax on our own account. In the course 
of selling it, Robert began to think of turning 
flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his 
grand view of settling in life, and as subser- 
vient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
WTOught at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but aliandoned it at 
that period, as neither agreeing with his 
health nor inclination. In Irvine he had 
contracted some acquaintance of a freer 
manner of thinking and living thjsn he liad 
been used to, whose society prepared him 
for overleaping the bounds of rigid vntue 
which had hitherto restrained him. To- 
wards the end of the period under review 
(in his 26th year), and soon after his fathei's 
death, he was fiu-nished with the sutiject 
of his epistle to John Rankin. Durnig 
this period also he became a freemason, 
which was his first mtroduction to the life 
of a boon compauiou. Yet, uctwitkstaud* 



BUBXS AT MGS3GIEL. 



19 



tng tie circumstances and the praise he 
has bestowed on Scotch drink (which seems 
to liave misled his historians), I do not 
recollect, during these seven years, nor till 
towards the end of his commencing author 
(when his gro\ving celebrity occasioned his 
being often in company), to have ever 
ieeii him intoxicated; nor was he at all 
given to drinking. A stronger proof of the 
general sobriety of his conduct need not 
be required than what I am about to ^ve. 
During the whole of the time we lived in 
the farm of Lochlea with my father, he 
allowed my brother and me such wages for 
our labour as he gave to other labour- 
er*, as a part of which, eiery article of 
our clothing manufactured iu the family, 
was regularly accounted for. When my 
father's afl'airs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting 
of 118 acres, at the rent of £90 per annum 
(the farm on which I hve at present), from 
IVIr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the 
family in case of the worst. It was stocked 
by the property and individual savings of 
the whole family, and was a joint concern 
among us. (25) Every member of the family 
was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he 
performed on the farm. (26) My brother's 
allowance and mine wa? seven pomids per 
annuua each. And during the whole time 
this family concern lasted, which was for 
four years, as well as during the preceding 
period at Lochlea, his expenses never in 
any one year exceeded his slender income. 
As I was entrusted with the keeping of 
tile fauiily accounts, it is not possible that 
there can be any fallacy in this statement 
in my brother's favour. His temperance and 
fi'ugality were every thing that could be 
wished." 

" The fana of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first 
fiur years that we were on the farm were 
Yery frosty, and the spring was very late. 
Our crops in consequence were very un- 
profitable ; and, notwithstanding our utmost 
diligence and economy, we found ourselves 
obliged to give up our bargain, with the loss 
of a considerable part of our original stock. 
It was during these four years that Robert 
formed his connexion with Jeau Armour, 
afterwards l\Irs. Burns. Tliis connexion 
could no longer be concealed about the time 
we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engage with 
a family in his poor unsettled state, but was 
anxious to shieid his partner, by every 
means in his power, from thf «ixjiisequences 
of tkeir imprudence. It wa« agreed, there. 



fore, between them, that they shoidd mnka 
a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
private marriage; that Ae should go ta 
Jamaica to j^i^sh his fortune; and that sha 
should remain with her father till' it raighi 
please Providence to put the means of sud- 
porting a family in his power." 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a marriage wa» 
the first suggestion he received of her real 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, 
and fainted away. Tlie marriage did nol 
appear to him to make the matter better. 
A husband in Jamaica appeared to him 
and his wife little better than none, and 
an effectual bar to any other prospects oJ 
a setclement in life that their daughter 
might have. They therefore expressed a 
wish to her, that the written papers which 
respected the marriage should be cancelled, 
and thus the marriiige rendered void. In 
her melancholy state, she felt the deepest 
remorse at having brought such heavy afilio- 
tion on parents that loved her so tenderly, 
and submitted to their entreaties. Their 
wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt 
the deepest anguish of mind. He offered 
to stay at home and provide for his wife and 
family in the best manner that his daily 
labours could pro\'ide for them, that being 
the only means in his power. Even this 
offer they did not approve of; for humble 
as Miss Armour's station v/as, and though 
great her imprudence had been, she still, in 
the eyes of her partial parents, might look 
to a better connection than that with my 
friendless and mihappy brother, at that time 
without house or biding-place. Robert at 
length consented to their wishes; but his 
feelings on this occasion were of the most 
distracting nature; and the impression 
of sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular 
marriage they were indissolubly united. In 
the state of mind which this separation pro- 
duced, he wished to leave the country aa 
soon as possible, and agreed with Dr. 
Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant 
overseer, or, as I beheve it is called, a book- 
keeper on his estate. As he had not suffi- 
cient money to pay his passage, ami the 
vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure 
a passage for him was not expected to sail 
for some time, ilr. Hamilton advised him to 
publish his poems in the; mean time by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little 
money, to provide huu more liberally in 
necessaries for Jamaica, Agreably to this 
advice, subscription-bills were printed imme- 
diately, and the printing was conunenced at 
Kilmarnock, his preparations goiu^ ouat ibM 



20 



LIFE OF BUIli^fS. 



Bame time for liis voyage. (27) The recep- 
tion, however, which liis poems met with in 
the workl, and the friends they procured 
him, made him change his resolution of 
going to Jamaica, and lie was ad\ised to go 
to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. 
On his return, in happier circumstances, he 
renewed his coiniection with Mrs. Burns, 
and rendered it permanent by a union for 
hfe." 

Thus, madam, have I endeavoured to 
pive you a simple narrative of the leading 
circumstances in my brother's early hfe. 
The remaining part he spent in Eduiburgh, 
or in Dumfries-shire, and its incidents axe as 
well knoMTi to you as to me. His genius 
having procured him your patronage and 
fi-iendship, this gave rise to the correspond- 
ence between you, in which, 1 believe, his 
•entiments were delivered with the most 
respectful, but most unreserved confidence, 
and which only terminated with the last 
days of his life." 

This narrative of Gilbert Bums may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch 
of our poet's life by himself. It will be 
seen that the distraction of mind which he 
mentions arose from the distress and sorrow 
in which he had involved his future wife. 
The whole circumstances attending this 
■ionnexion are certainly of a very singular 
nature. (28) 

The reader will perceive, from the fore- 
going narrative, how much the children of 
Wilham Burues were indebted to their 
father, who was certainly a man of uncom- 
mon talents, though it does not appear that 
he possessed any portion of that vivid 
imagination for which the subject of these 
memoirs was distingidshed. In page 13, it 
18 observed by our poet, that his father had 
an imaccouutable antipathy to dancing- 
schools, and that his attending one of these 
brought on him his displeasure and even 
dislike. On this observation Gilbert has 
made the foll(jwing remark, which seems 
entitled to implicit creiht : — "I wonder how 
Robert coidd attribute to our father that 
lasting resentment of his going to a danc- 
ing-school against his will, of which he was 
incajiable. 1 believe the truth was, that he, 
about tliis time, began to see the dangerous 
impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well 
as hie not being amenable to counsel, which 
often irritated my father, and which he 
would naturally think a dancing-school was 
not likely to correct. But he was proud of 
Robert's genius, jrhich he bestowed more 
expense in culti\tttiiig than on the rest of I 
the family, in the iustaueei of sending him | 



to Ayr and Kirkos>vald schools; and he wa» 
greatly delighted with his warmth of heart 
and liis conversational powers. He hail, 
indeed, that dislike of daiicing-jchools which 
Robert mentions, but so far overcame it 
during Robert's tirst month of attendance, 
that he allowed all the rest oi the family that 
were lit for it to accompany lnim during 
the second month. Robert excelled in 
dancing, and was for some time distractedly 
fond of it." 

" In the original letters to Dr. Jloore, our 
poet described his ancestors as " renti(ig 
lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and 
having had the honour of sharing their 
fate." " I do not," continues he, " use the 
word honour with any reference to pohtical 
principles ; loyal and dlslotjal, I take to be 
merely relative terms, in that ancient and 
formidable court, known in tins country 
by the name of Club-law, where the right 
is always with the strongest. But those 
who dare welcome ruin, and shake hatida 
with infamy, for what they scarcely believe 
to be the cause of their God, or theii 
king, are, as i\lark Antony says in Sliaks- 
peare of Brutus and Cassius, liononraOlt 
men. I mention this circumstance, because 
it threw my father on the world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in print- 
ing the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns; 
and it woidd have been unnecessary to 
have noticed it on the present occasion, 
had not several manuscript copies of that 
letter been in circulation. " I do not know," 
observed Gilbert Burns, "how my brother 
could be misled ui the account he has given 
of the Jacobitism of his ancestors. I beheve 
the Earl Marischal forfeited his title and 
estate in 1715, before my father was born; 
and, among a collection of parish-certiiicates 
in his posession, I have read one, stating 
that the bearer had no concern in the latt 
wicked rebellion." On the information of one, 
who knew WUliam Burnes soon after he 
arrived in the country of Ayr, it may be 
mentii)ned, that a report did prevail that h« 
had taken the field with the young Cheva- 
her — a report which the certiticate mentioned 
by his son was, perhaps, intended to counter- 
act. Strangers from the north, iu the low 
country of Scotland, were in those days liable 
to suspicions of having been, in the 
familiar phrase of the country, "Out in 
the forty-five" (1745), especiiUly when they 
had any stateliness or reserve about them, 
as was the case with William Bumes. It 
may easily be conceived, that our poet 
would cherish the heUef of his father's hav- 
ing been engaged in the daring euterpnue 



Ill '^ ^ 



THE OmGINAL OF THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGET. 



21 



of Vrince, Charles Edward. The generous 
alhiiliuient, tlie heroic valour, and the final 
tuisfbrtunes of the adliereuts of the house 
of Stuart, touched with syin])athy his youth- 
fil and ardent iniiid, and influenced his 
ori</iual political opinions. (Ud) 

'llie father of our poet is described by 
one who knew him towards the latter end 
sf his life, aa above the common stature, 
thin, and bent with labour. Mis counte- 
iiaiice was serious and expressive, and the 
scanty locks on his head were f^Tcy. He 
v.as of a religious turn of mind, and, as 
is usual among the Scottish peasantry, a 
pnod deal conversant in speculative theology. 
'Ihore is, in (iilbert's hands, a little manual 
of religious belief, in the form of a dialogue 
between a faiher and his son, composed 
by iiira for the use of his children, in 
wliicli the benevolence of his heart seems to 
have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism 
of the Scotch church, into something ap- 
proaching to Arminianism. lie was a 
devout man, and in the practice of calling 
his family together to join in prayer. It is 
known that the following exijuisile picture, 
in the Cotter's Saturday Night, represents 
William Burnes and his family at their 
eveumg devotions: — 

•* The cheerful supper done, with serious 

face, [wide ; 

Tli( y, rouTid the inple (30\ form a circle 

Tilt sire turns o'er, with patviaichal grace, 

The biir /iril/-U\hU\ once liis father's jiride: 

Hi-^ bonnet rev'rcntly is laid aside, (bare ; 

His lyart hafl'cts (31) wearing thin and 

Tho-^e strains that once did sweet in Zion 

filide, [oarc ; 

Tie w lies (32) a portion with judicious 

And ' Let us worship God 1 " he says with 

solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise ; [aim : 

Thoy tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
Perhaps Dundee's (33) wild warblina: mea- 
sures rise, [name; 
Or ]>laintive .1/Vr?Vyr,9 (34), worthy of tlie 
Or noble Ij'yin (35) beets (30) the heavenly 
flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
Conipar'd with these Italian trills' a>.e" tame, 
Tlie tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 
raise; [praise. 
Ko unison have they with our Creator's 
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
(37) 
IIowAbram was the friend of God on high: 
Oi' .Moses bade eternal welfare wacre 

With Aiualek's untfracious progeny; 
Or how tlie royal bard did Kroaniuff lie, [ire; 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avengiug 
Or Job's ))athetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rajit Isaiah wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacrtd lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How iruiltless blood for guilty man wa« 
shed ; [name. 

How he who bore in heaven the second 
Had not on earth whereoii to lay bis head. 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land ; 
How be, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a misjhty an.L'el stand, 
And heard irreat Babylon's doom prououucedj 
by Heaven's command I 
Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal 
Kinif, [prays; 

The saint, the father, and the husb;uid, 
' Hope springs exulting on triumphant 
wing,' [days; 

That thus they all shall meet in fulura 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 

Together hymning their Creator's praise^ 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 

While circling time moves round )ai an eternal 

sphere. 

• • • • • 

Then homeward all take off their sevend 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
Tlie parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And offer u]) to Heaven the warm request; 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way liis wisdom sees the best, 
I'or them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divino 
preside!" 

Of a family so interesting as that which 
inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be willing to listen to 
some farther account. What follows is givea 
by one already mentioned with so much 
honour in the nan-ative of Gilljert Burns, 
Mr. Blurdoch, the preceptor of our poet, 
who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper Walker, 
Esq., of DKblin, author of the Historical 
Memoirs of the Irish Bards, and of the His- 
torical iMemoir of the Italian Tragedy, thtu 
expresses himself : — 

" Silt.— I was lately favoured with a lettef 
from our worthy friend, the Rev. W^ia. 
Adair, in which he requested me to com» 
municate to you whatever particulars I 
i could recollect concerning Robert Burns, 
the AyTshire poet. ]\ly business being at 
present midtifarious and harassing, my 
attention is consequently so much divided, 
and I am so little in the habit of express- 
ing my thoughts on paper, that at this 
distance of time I can give but a very im» 
perfect sketch of the early part of the life 
of that extraordinary genius, with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

William Burnes, the father of the poct^ 



22 



LIFE OP BUEXS. 



was norn in the shire of Kincardine, and 
bred a gardener. He had been settled in 
Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I 
knew hira, and had been in the service of 
Mr Crawford of Boonside. He was afterwards 
employed as a gardener and overseer by 
Provost Fergnson of Doonholin, m the parish 
of AUoway, wliich is now united with that 
of Ayr. In this parish, on the roadside, a 
Scotch mile and a half from the town of Ayr, 
and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, 
Willian Biirnes took a piece of land, consist- 
ing of about seven acres ; part of which he 
laid out in garden ground, and part of 
which he kept to graze a cow, &c., still 
continuing in the employ of Provost Fer- 
guson. Upon this little farm was erected 
a humble dwelluig, of which William Barnes 
was the arclutect. It was, with the excep- 
tion of a Uttle straw, literally a tabernacle 
of clay. In this mean cottage, of which 
I myself was at times an inhabitant, I 
really believe there dwelt a larger portion 
of content than in any palace in Europe. 
The Cotter's Saturday Night will give some 
idea of the temper and maimers that pre- 
vailed there." 

"In 1765, about the middle of March, 
Mr. W. Burnes came to Ajt, and sent to 
the school where I was improving in vnrit- 
ing, under my good friend Mr. Robinson, 
desiring that I would come and speak to 
him at a certain inn, and bring my \vriting 
book with me. This was immediately com- 
plied with. Having examined my \VTitiug, 
he was pleased with it — you will readily 
allo>r he was not diflicidt — and told me 
that he had received very satisfactory infor- 
mation of Mr. Tennant, the master of the 
English school, concerning my improvement 
in English, and in his method of teach- 
ing. In the month of Alay following, I was 
engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of Ins 
neighbours, to teach, and accordingly began 
to teach the school at AUoway, which was 
situated a few yards from the argillaceous 
fabric above-mentioned. jMy five employers 
undertook to board me by turns, and to 
make up a certain salary, at the end of the 
year, provided my quarterly pajTiients from 
the different pupils did not amount to that 
•um." 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- 
tween six and seven years of age ; his 
preceptor about eighteen. Robert, and his 
younger brother, Gilbert, had been grounded 
a little in English before they were put 
under my care. They both made a rapid 
progress in readuig, and a tolerable progress 
in writiug. In reading, divi'Uug wcids into 



syllables byrnle, spelling witlicmtbcflk. pas* 
ing sentence, &c., Robert and Gilbert 
were generally at the upper eud of the class, 
even when ranged with boys by far theii 
seniors. The books most commonly used 
in the school were the Spelling Book, the 
New Testament, the Bible, Mason's CoUec 
tion of Prose and Verse, and Fisher"-? 
English Grammar. They committed to 
memory the hymns, and other poems o/ 
that collection, with xmcommon facility 
This facility was partly owing to the method 
pursued by their father and me in instruct* 
ing them, which was, to make them tho- 
roughly acquainted with the meaning of 
every word in each sentence that was 
be committed to memory. By the bye, this 
may be easier done, and at an earliei 
period, than is generally thought. As soon 
as they were capable of it, 1 taught them 
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; 
sometimes to substitute synon.ymous ex- 
pressions for poetical words, and to supply 
all the ellipses. These, you know, are the 
means of knowing that the pupil understandi 
his author. These are excellent helps to the 
arrangement of words in sentences, as well 
as to a variety of expression." 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to pos- 
sess a more lively imagination, and to be 
more of the w it, than Robert. I attempted 
to teach them a little church-music. Here 
they were left far behind by all the rest 
of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, 
was remarkably didl, and his voice un- 
tunable. It was long before I could get 
them to distinguish one time from another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, 
and expressive of a serious, contemplative, 
and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live ; and cer- 
tainly, if any person who knew the two boys 
had been asked wliich of them was the 
most likely to court the muses, he woidd 
surely never have guessed that Robert had 
a propensity of that kind." 

"In the year 1767, Mr. Burnes quitted 
his mud editice, and took possession of a 
farm (Mount Oliphant), of liis own improv. 
lag, while in the service of Provost Ferg* 
son. Tliis farm being at a considerable 
distance from the school, the boys coiUd 
not attend regularly ; and some changes 
taking place among the other supporters of 
the school, I left it, having contmued to 
conduct it for nearly two years and a half." 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed 
(teing one of five candidates who were 
examined) to teach the English school at 
Ayr; and in 1773, Robert Burns came ta 




^r r-^ — g-^ 



• iuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii;:iiiiiiiiiiMii;ii,iiiiiiiiN 



BURNS STUDIES FEENCH. 



23 



board and Iodide with me, for the purpose of 
tevisint^ Enjjlish giaiauiar, &c., that he 
miijlit be better qiiahied to instruct his 
brothers and sisters at liome. He was now 
with me day and nig-ht, in school, at all 
meals, and iu all my walks. At the end of 
one week, I told him, that, as he was now ] 
pretty mvch master of the parts of speech, ; 
&c., I should like to teach him something 
of French pronunciation ; that when he 
ghoiUd meet with the name of a French 
town, ship officer, op the hke, in the news- 
papers, he might be able to pronounce it 
something like a French word. Robert was 
glad to hear this proposal, and immedi- 
ately we attacked the French with good 
courage." 

"Now there was Uttle else to be heard 
but the declension of nouns, the con- 
jugation of verbs, &c. When walking 
together, and even at meals, I was con- 
stantly telling him the names of different 
objects, as they presented themselves, iu 
French ; so that he was hourly laying in 
a stock of words, and sometimes little 
phrases. In short, he took such pleasiu-e in 
fearning, and I in teaching, that it is 
difficult to say which of the two was most 
zealous in the busmess ; and about the end of 
the second week ofour study of the French, 
we began to read a little of the Adventiires 
of Telemachus, in Fenelou's own words." 

"But now the plains of Mount Ohphant 
began to \^hiten, and Robert was sum- 
moned to relinquish the pleasing scenes that 
surround the grotto of Calypso, and, armed 
with a sickle, to seek glory by signalising 
Viimseh' iu the field of Ceres — and so he 
iid ; for, altliough but about fifteen, I was 
*>old tnat he performed the work of a man," 

" Thus was I deprived of ray very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at 
the end of three weeks, one of which was 
Bpect entirely in the study of English, and 
the other two chiefly in that of French. 
I did not, however, lose sight of him, but 
was a frequent visitant at his father's house, 
wlieii I had my half holiday; and very 
often went, accompanied with one or two 
persons more intelligent than myself, that 
good William Burnes might enjoy a mental 
feast. Then the labouring oar was shifted 
to some other hand. The father and the 
son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a 
conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensi- 
ble remark, and a moderate seasoning of 
jocularity, were so nicely blended, as to 
render it palatable to all parties. Robert 
had a hu udied questions to ask me about 
ike French, &c. ; and tlie father, "n ho bad 



always rational information in view, had 
still some questions to prcqiose to my 
more learned friends, upon moral or natural 
philosophy, or some such uiteresting subject. 
Mrs. Burnes, too, was of the party as muc& 
as possible ; 

•But still the house affairs would draw Lei 

thence, [patcii, 

^\^lich ever as she could with haste dis- 
Slie'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
Devour up tlieir discouri^e' — 

and particularly that of her husband. -A 
all times, and in all com))anies, she listened 
to him with a more marked attention thai) 
to any body else. Wlien under the neces- 
sity of being absent wliile he v^as speak- 
ing, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that 
she had missed what the good man had 
said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, 
had the most thorough esteem for her hus- 
band of any woman I ever knew. I can 
by no means wonder that she highly 
esteemed him ; for I myself have always 
considered William Burnes as by far tiia 
best of -the human race that ever I had 
the pleasure of being acquainted with — • 
and many a worthy character I have known. 
I can cneerfully join with Robert in the last 
line of his epitaph (borrowed from Gold- 
smith), 
' And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 

■' He was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assiduous attention to the 
ease and comfort of his worthy jiartner, 
and from her affectionate behaviour to 
him, as well as her unwearied attention ty 
the duties of a mother." 

" He was a tender and affectionate father ; 
he took pleasure in leading his children in 
the path of virtue, not in drinng them, as 
some parents do, to the performance of 
duties to which they themselves are averse. 
He took care to find fault but very seldom ; 
and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
listened to with a kind of reverential awe. 
A look of disapprobation was felt ; a re- 
proof was severely so ; and a strip with 
the tmcz, even on the skirt of the coat, 
gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamen- 
tation, and brought forth a flood of tears." 

" He had the art of gaining the esteen. 
and goodwill of those that were labourers 
under him. I think I never saw him angry 
but twice ; the one time, it was with tiie 
foreman of the band, for not reaping the 
field as he was desired; and the otlier 
time, it was with an old man, for using 
smutty inuendoes and double entendres. 
Were everv foul-mouthed old man to receive 




(T^i-— ^ 







24 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



B reasuiable check in tliis way, it would be ' 
to the advantage of the rising generation. ' 
As he was at no time overbearing to 1 
inferiors, lie was equally incapable of that 1 
passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces i 
some people to keep booing and booimj in the i 
presence of a great man. He always treated 
superiors with a becoming respect ; but he j 
never gave the smallest encouragement to ^ 
aristocratical arrogance. But 1 must not i 
pretend to give you a description of all the i 
manly qualities, the rational and Christian ' 
virtues, of the venerable William Burnes. j 
Tine would fail me. I shall only add j 
that he carefully practised every known j 
duty, and avoided every thing that was i 
criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. Herein 
did he exercise himself, in liviur/ a life void 
of offence towards God and towards men. 
Oh for a world of men of such dispositions ! 
We should then have no wars. I have often 
Wished, for the good of mankind, that it 
were as customary to honour and perpetuate 
the memory of those who excel in mural 
rectitude as it is to extol what are called 
heroic actions : then would the mausoleum 
of the friend of my youth overtop and 
surpass most of the monuments I see in 
Westminster Abbey." 

"Although I cannot do justice to the cha- 
racter of this worthy man, yet you will 
perceive, from these few particulars, wiiat 
kind of person had the principal hand in the 
education of our poet. He spoke the 
Enghih language with moie propriety (both 
with respect to diction and promuiciation) 
than any man I ever knew with no greater 
advantages. This had a very good etfect 
on the boys, who began to talk, and reason 
hke men, much sooner than tlieir neighbours. 
I do not recollect any of their contempo- 
raries, at my little seminary, who afterwards 
made any great degree as literary ckarac- 
tsrs, except JJr. Teunant, who was chaplain 
to Colonel Fullartou's regiment, and who is 
now in the East Indies. He is a man of 
genius and learning ; yet affable, and free 
from pedantry." 

" Air. Biurnes, in a short time, foimd that 
he had overrated Alomit Oliphant, and 
that he could not rear his numerous family 
upon it. After being there some years, he 
removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tar- 
bolton, where, I believe, Robert wr(*(e most 
of bis poems." 

" But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can tell you but little more relative to our 
poet. 1 shall, however, in my next, send 
you. a copy of one of his letters to me, 
tbaat the year 1733. I received one since. 



but it is mislaid. Please remember me, i« 
the best manner, to my worthy friend Mr. 
Adair, when you see hiin, or write to him." 
"Hart Street, Bloomshury Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burn* was 
written at a time when he was ignorant of 
the existence of the preceding narrative of 
his brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdoch 
was ^vritten without his having any know- 
ledji'e that either of liis pui)ils had been 
employed on the same subject. The three 
relations serve, therefore, not merely to 
illustrate, but to authenticate each other. 
Though the information they convey might 
have been presented withui a shorter com- 
pass, by reducing the whole into one 
unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be 
doubted, that the intelligent reader will ba 
far more gratified by a sight of these original 
documents themselves. 

[The poet mentions in his own narrative 
his visit in his nineteenth summer to Ivirk- 
oswald parish, and Ms mingling in scenes 
of dissipation there amongst the Carrick 
smugglers. The following additional par- 
ticulars respecting this period of his life will 
probably be interesting : they were col- 
lected by the present editor, but appeared 
originally in Chambers Edinburgh Journal. 

If Burns be correct in stating that it was 
his nineteenth summer which he spent ia 
Ivirkoswald parish, the date of his residence 
there must be 1777. What seems to have 
suggested his going to Kirkoswald school, 
was the connection of his mother with 
that parish. She was the daughter of 
Gilbert Brown, farmer of Craigeuton, in 
this parochial division of Carrick, in which 
she had many friends still living, par- 
ticularly a brother, Samuel Brown, who 
resided, in the miscellaneous capacity of 
farm-labourer, fisherman, and dealer in wool, 
at the farm-house of Ballochned, above a 
mile from the village of Kirkoswald. Thia 
Brown, though not the farmer or guidinan 
of the place, was a person held to be 
in creditable circumstances in a district 
where the distinction between master and 
servant was, aud still is, by no means great. 
His wife was the sister of Niven, the 
tenant ; and he lived in the '" chamber " 
or better portion of the farm-house, but 
was now a widower. It was with Browa 
that Burns lived during his attendance at 
Kirkoswald school, walking every morning 
to the village where the little seminary 
of learning was situated, aud retuijiia^' eU' 
night. 



1^ iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!ii!i!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiin![!iiiHiniiiiii!iiiiiii!iiiiinii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiH' 







linniMIUIlllUlll 




HUGH RODGER THE SCHOOLMASTER. 



» 



The district into which the young poet of 
Kyle w as tlius thrown, has many features of 
a remarkable kind. Though situated on the 
tliore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers 
mve every hour to be seen on their past ^e 
between enlightened and busy cities, it is to 
this day the seat of simple and patriarchal 
usages. Its land, composed of bleak green 
upland?, partly cultivated and partly pas- 
toral, was, at the time .alluded to, occupied 
by a generation of primitive small farmers, 
many of whom, while preserving their native 
simplicity, had superadded to it some of 
the irregular habits arising from a concern 
in the trade of introducing contraband 
goods on the Carrick coast. (38) Such 
dealings did not prevent superstition from 
flourishing amongst them m a degree of 
Tigour of which no district of Scotland 
now presents any example. Tlie parish 
has six miles of sea coast ; and the village, 
where the church and school are situated, is 
in a sheltered situation about a couple 
of miles inland. 

The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, 
enjoyed great local fame as a teacher of 
mensuration and geometry, and was much i 
employed as a practical land surveyor. On I 
the day when Burns entered at the school, 
6.nor,( er youth, a little younger than himself, ' 
also entered. This was a native of the | 
neighbouring tovra of Maybole, who having : 
there completed a course of classicTil study, I 
was now sent by his father, a respectable ' 
shopkeeper, to acquire arithmetic and men- 1 
euration under the famed mathematician 
of Kirkoswald. It was then the custom, 
when pupils of their age entered at a 
school, to take the master to a tavern, and 
implement the engagement by treating him 
to some liquor. Burns and the Maybole 
yontli, accordingly united to regale Rodger 
with a potation of ale, at a public house in 
the village, kept by two gentlewomanly sort 
of persons named Keiniedy — Jean and 
Anne Kennedy — the former of whom was 
destined to be afterwards married to im- 
mortfj verse, mider the appellation of 
Khkton Jean, and whose house, in con- 
sideration of some pretensions to birth or 
style above the common, was always called 
"the Leddies' House." From that time, | 
Burns and the Maybole youth became ' 
Ultuuate friends, insomuch, that, during this 
«umraer, neither had any compaiuon with 
whom he was more frequently in company 
than with the other. Burns was only at the 
village during school hours ; but when his 
friend Willie returned to the paternal dome 
on Satm'day nights, the poet would accom- 



pany him, and stay tUl it was time for both 
to come back to school on Monday morning. 
Tliere was also an interval between the 
morning and afternoon meetings of the 
school, which the two yottths used to spend 
together. Instead of amusing themselves 
with ball or any other sport, like the rest of 
the scholars, they would take a walk by 
themselves in the outskirts of the villagei, 
and converse on subjects calculated to ini. 
prove their minds. By and bye, they fell 
upon a plan of holding disputations or argu- 
ments on speculative questions, one taking 
one side, and the other the other, without 
much regard to their respective epinions on 
the point, whalt/er it might be, the whole 
object being to sharpen their intellects. 
Tliey asked several of their coijipauions to 
come and take a side in these debates, but 
not one would do so ; they only laughed at 
the young philosophers. The matter at 
length reached the ears of the master, who, 
however skilled in mathematics, possessed 
but a narrow understanding and httle gene- 
ral knowledge. With all the bigotry of ths 
old school, he conceived that this superero- 
gatory emplojTuent of his pupils was a piece 
of absurdity, and he resolved to correct them 
in it. One day, therefore, when the school 
was fully met, and in the midst of its usual 
business, he went up to the desk where 
Bm-ns and Willie were sitting opposite to 
each other, and began to advert in sarcastic 
terms to what he had heard of them. They 
had become great debaters, he understood, 
and conceived themselves fit to settle affairs 
of importance, which wiser heads usually le» 
alone. He hoped their disputations would 
not ultimately become quarrels, and that 
they would never think of coining from 
words to blows ; and so forth. The jokes of 
schoolmasters always succeed amongst the 
boys, who are too glad to find the awful 
man in any thing hke good humour, to 
question either the moral aim or the point 
of his wit. They therefore, on this occa- 
sion, hailed the master's remarks with he.irty 
peals of laughter. Nettled at this, Willie 
resolved he would "speak up" to Rodger; 
but first he asked Burns in a whisper if he 
woidd support him, which Burns promised 
to do. He then said that he was sorry to 
find that Robert and he had given offence , 
it had not been intended. And indeed ho 
had expected that the master would have 
been rather pleased to know of their endea- 
vours to improve their minds. He could 
assure him that such improvement «as the 
sole obje;t they had in view. Rodger 
sneered tk the idea of their improving theii 



25 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



minds by nonsensical discussions, and con- 
temptuously asked what it was they disputed 
about. Willie replied, that generally there 
was a nevf subject every day ; that he could 
Dot recollect all that liad come under their 
attention ; but the question of to-day iiad 
been — " Whether is a great general or a re- 
spectable merchant the most valuable mem- 
ber of society?" Tlie dominie laughed 
outrag-eously at what he called the silliness 
of such a question, seeing there could be no 
doubt for a moment about it. " Wellf' said 
Burns, " if you think so, I will be glad if you 
Jake any side you please, and allow me to 
take tlie other, and let us discuss it before 
the school." Rodger most unwisely assented, 
»nd commenced the argument by a flourish 
in favoiw of the general. Burns answered 
by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of 
the merchant, and soon had an evident su- 
periority over his preceptor. The latter 
replied, but without success. His hand was 
observed to shake ; then his voice trembled ; 
and he dissolved the house in a state of 
vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote, 
who can fail to read a prognostication of 
future emiuence tothe two disputants? The 
one became the most illustrious poet of his 
cmntfy'; and it is not unworthy of being 
m 'iitioiied in the same sentence, that the 
other advanced, through a career of success- 
ful industry in his native to';\i>, to the pos- 
session of a large estate in its neighbourhood, 
and some share of the honoui's usually 
reserved in this country for bu'tli and aristo- 
cratic connection. 

nie coast in the neighbourhood of Bums's 
residence at Ballochneil presented a range of 
rustic characters upon wliom his genius was 
destined to confer an extraordinary interest. 
At the farm of Shauter, on a slope overlook- 
ing the shore, not far from Turnberry Castle, 
lived Douglas Graham, a stout hearty speci- 
men of the Carrick farmer, a little addicted 
to smuggling, but withal a worthy and 
upright member of society, and a kiiid- 
naciired man. He had a wife named Helen 
M'Taggart, who was unusually addicted to 
superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading 
where tliis good couple lived is now no more, 
for the farm has been divided for the in- 
crease of two otlMTs in its neighbourhood ; 
but genius has given them a perennial ex- 
istence in the tale of Tam o'Shaiiter, where 
their characters are exactly delineated under 
the respective appellations of Tam and 
Kate. * * * » 

At Ballochneil, Bums engaged heartily in 
the sports of leaping, dancing, wrestling, 
ftitling (throwing) the stone, and others of 



the like kind. His innate thirst for distin& 
tion and superiority was manifested in thesa 
as in more important affairs ; but tht ugh ha 
was possessed of great strength, as well as 
skill, he could never match his young bed- 
fellow, John Niven. Obliged at last ta 
acknowledge himself beat by this person in 
bodily warfare, he had recourse for amends 
to a spiritual mode of contention, and would 
engage yoimg Niven in an argume-it about 
some speculative question, when, of course, 
he invariably floored his antagonist. His 
satisfaction on these occasions is said to 
have been extreme. One day, as he was 
walking slowly along the street of the village 
in a manner customary to him, with his eyes 
bent on the ground, he was met by the 
Hisses Biggar, the daugiiters of the parish 
pastor. He would have passed without 
noticing them, if one of the young lathes 
had not called him by name. She then 
rallied him on his inattention to the fair 
sex, in preferring to look towards the inani- 
mate ground, instead of seizing the oppor- 
tunity aff'orded him of indulging in the 
most invaluable privilege of man, that of 
beholding and conversing with the ladies. 
" Madam," said he, " it is a natural and 
right thing for man to contemplate the 
ground, from whence he was taken, and for 
woman to look upon and observe man, from 
whom she was taken." This was a conceit, 
but it was the conceit of " no v^ilgar boy." 
There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in cho 
beginning of August — on the same day, we 
believe, with a like fair at Kirkoswald ic 
Northumberland, both places having taken 
their rise from the piety of one person, 
Oswald, a Saxon king of the heptarchy, 
whose memory is probably honoured in 
these observances. During the week pre- 
ceding this fair in the year 1777, Burns 
made overtures to his Maybole friend, 
W illie, for their getting up a dance, on the 
evening of the approaching festival, in one 
of the public-houses of the vdlage, and in- 
viting their sweethearts to it. W illie knew 
little at that time of dances or sweethearts ; 
but he bked Burns, and was no enemy to 
amusement. He therefore consented, and it 
was agreed that some other yoimg men 
should be requested to join in the under- 
taking. Tlie dance took place, as designed, 
the requisite music being supplied by a 
hired band ; and anout a dozen couples par- 
took of the fun. When it was proposed to 
part, the reckoning was called, and found to 
amount to eighteen shillings and fourpence. 
It was then discovered that almost every 
one present had looked to liis ueigkbours I'M 



c~^ — ^ 

iiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiuiui;ii>ii:ii;;:iiiiii 



BURNS m LOVE WITH PEGGY THOMSOiT, 



27 



fte niBans of settling this claim. Burns, 
the originator of the scheme, was in the 
pnetical condition of not being master of a 
sins'le penny. The rest were in the like 
condition, all except one, wliose resources 
Eraounted to a groat, and iMayliole Willie, 
who possessed about half-a-cro\vn. ITie 
last individual, who alone boasted any 
rorl lly wisdom or experience, took it upon 
him to extricate the company from its diffi- 
iulties. By virtue of a candid and sensible 
narration to the landlord, he induced that 
individual to take what they had, and give 
credit for the remainder, 'fhe payuient of 
the debt is not the worst part of the story. 
Seeing no chance from begging or borrow- 
ing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, 
by merchandise. Observing that stationery 
articles for the school were procured at 
Kirkoswald with difficulty, he supplied him- 
self with a stock from his father's vi'arehouse 
at Maypole, and for some weeks sold pens 
and paper to his companions, with so much 
advantage, that at length he realised a suffi- 
cient amount of profit to liquidate the ex- 
pense of the dance. Burns and he then 
went in triumph to the inn, and not only 
settled the claim to the last penny, but 
gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of thanks 
into the bargain. Willie, however, took 
care from that time forth to engage in no 
schemes for country dances without looking 
carefully to the probaljle state of the pockets 
of his fellow adventurers. 

B\irns, according to his own account, con- 
cluded his residence at Kirkoswald in a 



bewildering passion of tVe jioet. Peggy 
was the the ne of his " So.ij composed in 
August," beginning, 

" Now westlin winds and slau^Lterin? gvaa 
Brings Autumn's pleasant w eathcr." 

She afterwards became IMra. Neilson, and 
lived to a good age in the town of Ayr, 
where her cliildren still reside. 

At his departure from Kirkoswald, he 
engaged his Maybole friend and some other 
lads to keep up a correspondence with him. 
His object in douig so, as we may gather 
from his own narrative, was to improve 
himself in composition. "I carried this 
whim so far." says he, "that, though I had 
not three farthings' worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post brought me as 
many letters as if I had been a broad plodd- 
ing son of day-book and ledger." To 
A\ illie, in particular, he WTOte oft^n, and in 
the most fiiendly and confidential terras, 
^^'he^ that individual was commencing 
business in his native town, the poet ad- 
dressed him a poetical epistle of appropriate 
advice, headed with the well-known lines 
from Blair's Grave, beginning — 
" Friendship ! mysterious cement of the sonl. 
Sweetener of life and solder of society." 

This correspondence continued till the period 
of the publication of the poems, when 
Biu-ns wrote to request his friend's good 
offices in increasing his list of subscribers. 
The young man was then possessed of little 
influence ; but what little he had, he ex- 
erted with aU the zeal of friendship, and 



blaze of passion for a fair filette who lived with considerable success. A considerable 



next door to the school. At this time, 
owing to the destruction of the proper 
school of Kirkoswald, a chamber at the end 
of the old church, the business of parochial 
uistruction was conducted in an apartment 



number of copies was accordingly trans- 
mitted in proper time to his care, and soon 
after the poet came to Maybole to receive 
the money. His friend collected a few 
choice spirits to meet him at the King's 



on the gromid floor of a house in the main j Arms Inn, and they spent a liappy nighi 
street of the village, opposite the church- | together. Burns was on this occasion par- 
yard. From behnid this house, as from j ticularly elated, for Willie, in the midst of 
behind each of its neighbours in the same I their conviviality, handed over to him abova 
row, a small stripe of kail-yard (AwjUce, I seven pounds, being the first considerable 
kitchen garden) runs back about fifty vards, ' sum of money the poor bard had ever pos- 
alciug a rapidly ascending slope. \\'hen sessed. In the pride of his heart, next 
Burns went into the particular patch behind | morning, he determined that he should not 
the school to take the smi's akitude, he had j walk home, and accordingly he hired from 
only to look over a low enclosure to see the his host a certain poor hack mare, weD 
eii'iilar patch connected with the next house. I known along the whole road from Glasgow 
Here, it seems, Peggy Tliomson, the | to Portpatrick — in all probability the first 
daughter of the rustic occuparit of that ■ hired conveyance that Poet Burns had ever 
nouse, was w alking at the time, though | enjoyed, for even his subsequent journey to 
more probably engaged in the business of , Edinburgh, aspicious as were the prospects 
cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, j imder which it was imdertaken, was per- 
than imitating the flower-gathering Proser- , formed on foo*;. WilUe and a few othel 
piae, or her prototype Eve. .Ueuce the | youths who had been iu his company on the 



28 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



preceding night, walked out of town before 
him, for tlie purpose of taking leave at a 
particular spot ; and before he came up, 
fiey had prepared a few mock-heroic verses 
In wliich to express their farewell. AMien 
Bums rode up, accordingly, they saluted 
him in this formal manner, a little to his 
mrjyrise. He thanked them, however, and 
instantly added, " What need of all this 
fine parade of verse ? It would have been 
quite enough if you had said- 
Here comes Burns, 

On Rosinaute ; 
She's d — poor, 
But he's d — canty.* 

rhe company then allowed Burni to go on 

his way rejoicing. (39.) 

Under the humble roof of liis parents, it 
appears that our poet had great advantages; 
but his opportunities of information at 
school were more limited as to time than 
they usually are among his countrjanen in 
his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
which he made, and the poetical talent 
which he exerted, under the pres>iure of early 
aud incessant toil, and of inferior, and per- 
haps scanty nutriment, testify at once the 
extraordinary force and activity of his mind. 
In his frame of body he rose nearly to live 
feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions 
that indicate agility as well as strength. In 
the various labours of the farm he excelled 
nil his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares 
that in mowing, the exercise that tries all 
the muscles most severely, Robert was the 
only man that, at the end of a smnraer's 
day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as 
his master. But though our poet gave the 
powers of liis body to the labours of the 
farm, he refused to beatow on them liis 
thoughts or his care. While the plough- 
Bhare under his guidance passed through the 
Bward, or the grass fell uniler the sweep of 
his scythe, he was humming the songs of 
his country, musing on the deeds of ancient 
Tolour, or wrapt in the illusion of fancy, as 
her enchantments rose on his view. Happily 
the Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man 
and beast rest from their labours. On this 
day, therefore. Burns could indulge in a free 
interooxu-se with the charms of nature. It 
was liis dehght to wander alone on the 
banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now im- 
mortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. 
But still greater was his pleasure, as he 
himself informs us, iu walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter 
day, aud hearing the storm rave among the 
tareesj aud more elevated still his dehgiit 



to ascend some emirence during the agita* 
tions of nature ; to stride along its sumiLiit, 
while the lightning flashed around him ; and, 
amidst the howhngs of the tempest, to apos- 
tropliise the spirit of the storm. Such 
situations he declares most favourable to 
devotion: — "Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem 
to ascend towardjj Him leho walks on the 
ivim/s of the ivinch ! " If other proofs wera 
wanting of the character of his genius, this 
miglit determine it. The heart of the poet 
is peculiarly awake to every impression o' 
beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher 
order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive 
than the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Bums's writings^ 
and the lively and even cheerful colouruig 
with which he has portrayed his own cha- 
racter, may lead some persons to suppose, 
that the melancholy which hung over liim 
towards tUe end of his days was not an ori- 
ginal part of his constitution. It is not t# 
be doubted, mdeed, that this melancholy 
acquired a darker hue in the progress of his 
life ; but, independent of his own and of his 
brother's testimony, evidence is to be found 
among his papers, that he was subject very 
early to those depressions of mind, wliich 
are perhaps not wholly separable from the 
sensibility of genius, but which in him arose 
to au uncommon degree. The following 
letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a 
proof of this observation. It was written at 
the time when he was learning the business 
of a flax dresser, and is dated 

" Irvine, December 'ZT, 1781. 
"Honoured Sir. — I have purposely de- 
layed writing, iu the hope that I should have 
the pleasm-e of seeing you on New-year's- 
day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that 
I do not choose to be absent on that account, 
as well as for some other little reasons, whiih 
I shall tell you at meeting. My health ia 
nearly the same as when you were here, only 
my sleep is a Uttle sounder ; and, on tfcp 
whole, I am rather better than othirvvise, 
though I mend by very slow degrees. The 
weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
mind, that I dare neither review past events, 
nor look forward into futurity ; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast, pro- 
duces most unhappy effects on my whole 
frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour 
or two my spirits ■!« a httle lightened, I 
glimmer a little into futarity ; but my prin- 
cipal, and indeed my only pleasurable em- 
ployment, is looking backwards and foi-wardi 
in a moral and rel'gious way. I am quite 
transported at the thoi'.g'hc, iVai. ere long; 



BUENS'S DEBATING CLUB. 



21 



fery soon, I shall hk\ an eternal adieu to all 
the pains and uneasinesses, and dis^iuietudes 
of tliis weary hfe, for I assure you I am 
heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very 
much deceive myself, I could conteutedly and 
gladly resign it. 
' The soul, uneasy and confin'd at home, 
F.ests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for tills reason I am more pleased 
with the 15th, IGth, and 17th verses of the 
7-h chapter of Revelations, than with any 
ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, 
gnd would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
■with which thry i'ispire me, for all that this 
world has to offer. (40) As for this world, I 
despair of ever making a figure in it. I am 
not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor 
the flutter of the gay. I shall never again 
be capable of entering into such scenes. In- 
deed, I air altogether unconcerned at the 
thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty 
Bnd obscurity probably await me ; I am in 
gome measure prepared, and daily preparing, 
to meet them. I have but just time and 
paper to return you my grateful thanks for 
the lessons of virtue and piety you have given 
me, which were too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
sent my dutiful respects to my mother, and 
my comi)liments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and 
with wishing you a merry New-year's-day, I 
shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your 
dutiful son, "Robert Burns. 

" P. S. — My meal is nearly out ; but I am 
going to borrow, till I get more." 

This letter, written several years before 
the publication of his poems, when his name 
was as obscure as his condition was humble, 
displays the philosophic melancholy which so 
generally forms the poetical temperament, 
and tliat buoyant and ambitious spirit which 
indicates a mind conscious of its strength. 
At Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a 
single room for his lodging, rented perliaps at 
the rate of a shilling a-week. He passed his 
days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and 
his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent to 
him from his father's family. The store of 
this humble, though wholesome nutnment, 
it appears was nearly exliausted, and he was 
about to borrow till he shoiJd obtain a sup- 
ply. (41) Yet even in this situation, his 
active imagination had formed to itself pic- 
tures of eminence and distinction. His de- 
spair of making a figure ii- the world, shows 
how ardently he wished for honourable fame; 
and his contempt of life, founded on this 
*Bs^sar, is the geui/me expression of a youth- 



ful and generous mind. In such a state of 
reflection, and of sufi'ering, the imagination 
of Burns naturally passed the dark bouuda. 
ries of our earthly hcrizon, and rested on 
those beautiful representations of a better 
world, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- 
ger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall 
be iu proportion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at va- 
riance with social enjojinents. Those who 
have studied the affinities of mind, know tliat 
a melancholy of this description, after a wlule, 
seeks rehef in the endearments of society, and 
that it has no distant connection with t?--» 
flow of cheerfulness, or even the er* -^vagance 
of mirth. It was a few days arier the writing 
of this letter that our poet, " in giving a wel- 
come carousal to the new year, with his gay 
companions," suffered his flax to catch tire, 
and his shop to be consumed to ashes. (42) 

The energy of Burns's mind was not efh 
hausted by his daily labours, the effusion cM 
his muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary 
meditations. Some time previous to his en- 
gagement as a flax-dresser, having heard that 
a debating club had been established in Ayr, 
he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
succeed in the village of Tarboltou. About 
the end of the year 1780, our poet, his bro- 
ther, and five other young peasants of tl»a 
ueighbourhood, formed themselves into a so- 
ciety of this sort, the declared objects of 
which were to relax themselves after toil, to 
promote sociality and friendship, and to im- 
prove. the mind. The laws and regulations 
were furnished by Burns. The members 
were to meet after the labours of the day 
were over, once a week, in a small public- 
house in the village, where each shoidd offer 
his opinion on a given question or subject, 
supporting it by such arguments as ha 
thought proper. The debate was to be con- 
ducted with order and decorum ; and after 
it was fiuished, the members were to clioosa 
a subject for discussion at the ensuing meet- 
ing. The sum expended by each was not to 
exceed threepence; and, with the humble 
potation that this could procure, they were 
to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate 
friendship with each other. This society 
continued its meetings regularly for some 
time; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing' 
to preserve some account of their proceed- 
ings, they purchased a book, into which their 
laws and regulations were copied, with • 
preamble, containing a short history of their 
transactions down to that period. 'J'hia 
curious document, which is evidently tha 
work of (lur poet, has been discovered, audi} 
deserves a Uikce va his memuiia. 






'^MkSc'^ — -Q' 




8C 



LIFE OF BUKNS. 



"HISTORT of the RISP, PK^V'W"^Jr^^(^•^ <ND 
UEGl'tATIONS OF THE BACHtLuRS' OLL?^ 

• Of birth or blood we do not Oossv, 

Nor gentry does our club affcrC ; 

But i)loujhman and mechanics we 

In Nature's simple dress record.' 

•As the great end of human society is t-o 
become wiser and better, this ought there- 
fore to be the principal view of every man in 
e*"ery station of life. But as experience has 
tauijht us, that such studies as inform the 
head and mend the heart, when long- con- 
tinned, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the 
mind, it has been found proper to relieve 
and unbend tlie mind by some employment 
or another, that may be agi'eeable enough to 
keep its powers in exercise, but at the same 
time not so serious as to exhaust them. But 
auperadded to this, by far the greater part of 
mankind are under the necessity of earnhuj 
thi; sustenance of human Ife by the lahoiir of 
their bodies, whereby, not only the faculties 
of mind, but the nerves and sinews of the 
body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely 
necessary to have recourse to some amuse- 
ment or diversion, to relieve the wearied man, 
worn down with the necessary labours of 
life. 

" As the best of things, however, have been 
perverted to the worrt of purposes, so, under 
the pretence of amusement and diversion, 
men have plunged into all the madness of 
riot and dissipation ; and, instead of attend- 
ing to the grand design of human life, they 
Lave begun with extravagance and folly, and 
ended Mith gudt and wretchedness. Im- 
pressed with these considerations, we, the 
following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, 
viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Bums, Gilbert Burns, 
Alexander Bro\vn, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
Wright, and William M'Gavin, resolved, for 
our mutual entertainment, to miite ourselves 
Into a club, or society, under such rules and 
regidations, that while we should forget our 
cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we 
might not transgress the boimds of inno- 
cence and decorum ; and after agreeing on 
these, and some other regidations, we held 
our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house 
of John Richard, upon the evening of the 
11th November, 1780, commonly called 
Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns 
president forthe night, we proceeded to debate 
on this question : ' Suppose a young man, 
bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has 
it in his power to marry either of two women, 
the one a girl of large fortune, but neither 
handsome in person nor agreeable in conver- 
sation, but who can manage the household 
aHaii's of a farm well euou^b ; the other of 



them a girl every way agreeable in person 
conversation, and behaviour, but without any 
fortune : which of them shall he choose '* 
Finding ourselves very happy in our societyj 
ve resolved to continue to meet once a 
month in the same house, in the way and 
i:>aan?r proposed, and shortly thereafter we 
chose i^ob<^rt Ritchie for another member. 
In M.-'y, 1781, we brought in David Sillar, 
(43j suk.' 1.^ v'une, Adam Jamaison, as mem* 
bers. Abou^ t>e beginning of the year 1782, 
we admitted Matthew Patterson and Jolm 
Orr, and in June foUowing we choose Jamei 
Patterson as a projitr brother for such a society. 
The club being thuj iacreased, we resolved to 
meet at Tarbolton on the race night, the J idy 
following, and have e dance in honour of our 
society. Accordingly, wc did meet, each one 
witi; a partner, and spent ttt tvening in such 
innocence and merriment, siunh chcerfidness 
and good humour, that every b.-cther will 
long remember it with pleasure anci delight." 
To this preamble are subjoined the lules and 
regulations. 

The philosophical mind will dwe^ with 
interest and pleasure on an institution that 
coMibined so skilfully the means of ini^truc- 
tion and of happiness ; and if grandeur Jooks 
down with a smile on these simple annals, 
let us trust that it will be a s^nde of benevo- 
lence and approbation. It is with reg"et 
that the sequel of the history of the Bach v 
lors' Club of Tarbolton must be told. Jl 
survived several years after oar poet remove<\ 
from Ayrsliire, but no longer sustained by 
his talents, or cemented by his social alfec 
tions, its meetings lost much of their attrac 
tion ; and at length, in an evU hour, dissen- 
sion arising amongst its members, the insti 
tution was given up, and the records com 
mitted to the flames. Happily, the preambl. 
and the regulations were spared ; and, ai 
matter of instruction and of example, thej 
are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed frc^u 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauch. 
line, he and his brother were requested to 
assist in forming a similar institution there. 
The regulations of the club at jMauchlme 
were nearly the same as those of the club at 
Tarbolton ; but one laudable alteration was 
made. Tiie tines for non-attendance had at 
Tarbolton been spent in enlarging theii 
scanty potations : at jMauchliiie it was fixed, 
that the money »o arising should be set 
apart for the purchase of books, and the first 
work procured in this manner was the JMir» 
ror, the separate numbers of which were at 
that time recently collected and published in 
volumes. After it, fuUovved a uumber of 







i!iiiiiiii>ii!aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,,n..iiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiii]t 







THE PECULIAR TASTES OF BURNS. 



3\ 



•thei works, chiefly of the same nature, 
and among these the Loun2;er. The so- 
ciety of Mauchline still [1800] subsists, and 
appeared in the list of subscribers to tlie 
first edition of the works of its celebrated 
associate. 

The members of these two societies were 
onHinally all young men from the country, 
and chiefly sons of farmers — a description of 
persons, in the opinion of our poet, move 
agreeable in their manners, more virtuous ia 
tlieir conduct, and more susceptible of im- 
provement, tlian the self-sufficient mechanics 
of country towns. With deference to the 
Conversation Society of Mauchline, it may 
be doubted, whether the books which they 
purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
promote the interest and happiness of per- 
sons in tliis situation of life. The Mirror 
and the Lounger, though works of great 
merit, mav be said, on a general view of tlieir 
contents, to be less calculated to increase the 
knowledge tiiaii to retine the taste of those 
who read them ; and to this last object their 
morality itself, which is, however, always per- 
fectly pure, may be considered as subordi- 
nate. As works of taste, they deserve great 
praise. Tliey are, indeed, relined to a high 
degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance 
it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little 
or nothing of the peculiar manners of the 
age or country in which they were produced. 
Bat delicacy of taste, though the source of 
many pleasures, is not without some disad- 
vantages ; and, to render it desirable, the 
possessor should, perhaps, in all cases, be 
raised above the necessity of bodily labour, 
unless, indeed, we should include under this 
term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy 
of taste may be a blessing to him who has 
the disposal of his own time, and who can 
choose what book he shall read, of what di- 
Tersion he shall partake, and what company 
he shall keep. To men so situated, the cul- 
tivation of taste affords a grateful occupation 
in itself, and opens a path to many other 
gratifications. To men of genius, in the 
possession of opulence ar d leisure, the culti- 
vation of the taste may hi said to be essen- 
tial ; since it affords employment to those 
faculties, which without emplojTnent would 
destroy the happiness of the possessor, and 
corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
the expressions of Mr. Hume, that detica'iy 
of passion, which is the bane of the temper- 
ament of genius. Happy had it been for our 
bard, after he emerged from the condition of 
a peasant, had the delicacy of his taste 
equalled the seusibility of his passions, regu- 



i lating all the effusions of his muse, and pre- 
siding over all his social enjoyments. But to 
the thousands who share the original condi- 

I tion of Burns, and who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the station in which they were 
born, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy 
attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be 
at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of 
taste may make many necessary labours irk- 
some or disgusting ; and should it render the 
cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situa- 
tion, it presents no means by which that 
situation may be improved. Taste and lite- 
rature, which diffuse so many charms through- 
out society, which sometimes secure to their 
votaries distinction while living, and which 
still more frequently obtain for them pos- 
thuinous fame, seldom procure opulence, or 
even indejiendeuce, when cultivated with the. 
utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- 
sued with advantage by the peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occupa- 
tions allow. Those who raise themselves 
from the condition of daily labour, are usually 
men who excel in the practice of some useful 
art, or who join habits of industry and so- 
briety to an acquaintance with some of the 
more common branches of knowledge. The 
penmanship of Butterworth, and the arith- 
metic of Cocker, may be studied by men in 
tlie humblest walks of life ; and they wLK 
assist the peasant more in the pursuit of in- 
dependence than the study of Homer or of 
Shakespeare, though he could comprehend, 
and even imitate, the beauties of those im- 
mortal bards. 

These observations are not offered with- 
out some portion of doubt and hesitation. 
The subject has many relations, and would 
justify an ample discussion. It may be 
observed, on the other hand, that the first 
step to improvement is, to awaken the 
desire of improvement, and that this will ba 
most effectually done by such reading aa 
interests the heart and excites the imagina- 
tion. The greater part of the sacred 
writings tbeniseives, which ia Scotland are 
more especially the manual of the poor, 
e Jine under this description. It may be fur. 
ther observed, thatevery human being is the 
proper judge of his own happiness, and, witiiin 
the path of innocence, ought to be per- 
mitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of 
the Scottish peasantry to give a preference 
to works of taste and of fancy (44), it may 
be presumed they find a superior gratifica- 
tion in the perusal of such works ; and it 
may be added, that it is of more con. 
sequence they should be made happy is 
their original condition, than furnished 




<^^ iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



82 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



with the means, or with the desire, of rising 
above it. Such considerations are, doubt- 
less, of much weight ; nevertheless, the 
previous reflections may deserve to be 
examined, and here we shall leave the subject. 
Though the records of the society at 
Tarboltun aru lost, and those of the society 
et Mauchline have not been transmitted, 
yet we may .safely affirm, tliat our poet was 
a distinguished member of both these 
associations, which were well calculated to 
excite and to develope the powers of his 
mind. From seven to twelve persons con- 
stituted the society of Tarbolton, and such 
a number is best suited to the purposes of 
information. Where this is the object 
of these societies, the number slioidd be 
such, that each person may have an oppor- 
tiuiity of imparting his sentiments, as well 
as of receiving those of others; and the 
powers of private conversation are to be 
employed, not those of public debate. A 
limited society of this kind, where the 
subject of conversation is fixed beforehand, 
so that each member may revolve it pre- 
viously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered 
for shortening the acquisition of kno^^'ledge, 
and hastening the evolution of talents. 
Such an association requires indeed some- - 
what more of regidation than the rules of 
politeness, estabhshed in common conversa- 
tion, or rather, perhaps, it reqiures that the 
rules of politeness, which in animated conver- 
sation are liable to perpetual violation, should 
be vigorously enforced. The order of speech 
established in the club at Tarbolton, ap- 
pears to have been more regTiiar than was 
required in so small a society ; where all 
that is necessary seems to be the fixing on 
a member to whom every speaker shall 
address himself, and who sliall in return 
secure the speaker from interruption. Con- 
versation, which among men whom intimacy 
and friendship have relieved from reserve 
and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, 
to 30 many inequahties, and which, as it 
becomes rapid, so often diverges into sepa- 
rate and collateral branches, in which it is 
dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
chrtuuel by a simple limitation of this knid, 
which practice renders easy and familiar, 
flows along in one full stream, and becomes 
smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it 
flows. It may also be observed, that in 
this way the acquisition of knowledge 
becomes more pleasant and more easy, from 
the gradual improvement of the facidty 
employed to convey it. Though some i 
attention has b&su paid to the eloquence of i 



the senate and the bar, which in this, aa 
in all other free governments, is productive 
of so much influence to the few who excel ill 
it, yet httle regard has been paid to ths 
humbler exercise of speech in private con« 
versation^an art that is of consequence to 
every description of persons under every 
form of government, and on which eloquenco 
of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocu- 
tion, a distiact utterance, is the oflspring of 
much time and of long practice. Children 
are always defective in clear articulation, 
and so are young people, though in a lesa 
degree. What is called slurring in speecti, 
prevads with some persons through life, 
especially in those who are taciturn. Ar- 
ticulation does not seem to reach its utmost 
degree of distinctness in men before the 
age of twenty, or upwards ; in women it 
reaches this point somewhat earlier. Fe^ 
male occupations require much use oE" 
speech, because they are duties in detail. 
Besides, their occupations being generally 
sedentary, the respiration is left at liljerty. 
Their nerves being more delicate, their 
sensibility as well as fancy is more lively; the 
natural consequence of which is, a more 
frequent utterance of thought, a greater 
fluency of speech, and a distinct articulation 
at an earlier age. But in men who have 
not mingled early and famdiarly with the 
world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, 
and clear in apprehension, it is often 
painful to observe the difiicalty with which 
their ideas are communicated by speech, 
through the want of those habits that con- 
nect thoughts, words, and sounds together ; 
which, when established, seem as if they had 
arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, 
are the result of long and painful practice ; 
and when analysed, exhibit the phenomena 
of most curious and complicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been 
describing, while they may be said to put 
each member in possession of the know- 
ledge of all the rest, improve the powers of 
utterance ; and by the collision of opinion, 
excite the faculties of reason and reflection. 
To those who wish to improve their minda 
in such intervals of labour as the condition 
of a peasant allows, this method of abbre- 
viating instruction, may, under proper 
regulations, be highly useful. To the 
student, whose opinions, springing out of 
solitary observation and meditation, are 
seldom in the first instance (lorre.'t, and 
which have, notwithstanding, while confined 
to himself, an increasing tendency to assumo 
in his own eye the character of demoustrar 











JEAN ARMOUR 



S8 



tions, ui association of this kind, where 
tliey njay be examined as tliey arise, is of 
the utmost imi)ortance ; since it may pre- 
vent those illusions of imagination, by wliich 
genius being bewildered, science is often 
debased, and error propagated through 
■uccessive generations. And to men who 
having cultivated letters, or general science, 
in the course of their education, are en- 
gaged in the active occupations of life, and 
no longer able to devote to study or to 
books the time requisite for improving or 
preserving their acquisitions, associations of 
this kind, where the mind may unbend 
from its usual cares in discussions of 
literature or science, aftV.-d the most pleas- 
ing, the most useful, and the most rational 
of gratifications. 

Whether i;i the himible societies of which 
he was a member. Burns acquired much 
direct information, may perhaps be ques- 
tioned. It cannot, however, be doubted, 
that by collision the faculties of his mind 
would be excited ; that by practice his 
habits of enunciation would be established ; 
and thus we have some explanation of that 
early command of words auvi of expression 
winch enabled him to pour forth his 
tlioughts in language not unworthy of his 
genius, and which, of all his endowments, 
seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, 
the most extraordinary. For associations 
of a literary nature, our poet acquired a 
considerable relish ; and happy had it been 
for him, after he emerged from the con- 
dition of a peasant, if fortime had permitted 
him to enjoy them in the degr*e of which 
he was capable, so as to have fortified his 
principles of virtue by the purification of his 
taste; and given to the energies of his 
mind, habits of exertion that might have 
excluded other associations, in which it 
must be acknowledged they were too often 
wasted, as well as debased. 

[The allusions in Burns's letter, and that 
of his brother, to his connection with Jean 
Armour, afford but a vague accoiuit of 
that affair ; find it seems necessary that 
gome farther and clearer particulars should 
now be given. 

John Blane reports the following in- 
teresting circumstances respecting the 
Bttachmwit of the poet to I\Iis Armour : — 
There was a sniging school at Mauciiline, 
which Blane attended. Jean Armour was 
also a pupil, and he soon became aware of 
her talents as a vocalist. He even con- 
tracted a kiid of attachment to this young 
woman, though only such as a coimtry lad 
tf hia degree might entertain for the 



daughter of a substantial country masou. 
One night, there was a rockinr/ at Mossgiel, 
where a lad named Ralph Sillar sang a 
number of songs in what was considered a 
superior style '\Mien Burns and Blana 
were retired to their usual sleeping place in 
the stable-loft, the former asked the latter 
what he thought of Sillar's singing, to whicH 
Blane answered that the lad thouglit so 
much of it himself, and h.ad so many aira 
about it, that there was no occasion for 
others expressing a favourable opinion — yet, 
he added, "I would not give Jean Armour 
for a score of hira." " T ou are always 
talking of this Jean Armour," said Buins; 
" I wish you could contrive to bring me to 
see her." Blane readily consented to do so, 
and next evening, after the plough waa 
loosed, the two proceeded to Mauchluie for 
that purpose. Burns went into a public- 
house, and Blane went into the smging- 
scliool, which chanced to be kept in the 
floor above. When the school was dis- 
missing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she 
would come to see Robert Burns, who waa 
below, and anxious to speak to her. Having 
heard of his poetical talents, she said she 
woidd like much to see him, but was afraid 
to go without a female companion. This 
difficulty being overcome by the frankness 
of a ISIiss Morton — the Miss JMorton of the 
Six Mauchhne Belles — Jean went down to 
the room where Burns was sitting. " From 
that time," Blane adds very naively, " I had 
little of the company of Jean Armoiu." 

Here for the present ends the stoiy of 
Blane. The results of Burns's acquaint- 
ance \nih Jean have been already in part 
detailed. When her pregnancy could be no 
longer concealed, the poet, under the in- 
fluence of honourable feeling, gave her s 
WTitten paper, in which he acknowledged 
his being her husband — a document suflii- 
cient to constitute a marriage in Scotland, 
if not in the eye of decency, at least in thai 
of law. But her father, from » dislik** to 
Bums, whose theological surires had gi'eatly 
shocked him, and from hopelesness of his 
being able to support her as a husband, 
insisted that she should destroy this paper, 
and remain as an unmarried woman. 

Seme violent scenes ensued. The parent! 
were enraged at the imprudence of their 
daughter, and at Burns. The daughter, 
trembling beneatb their indignation, could 
ill resist the command to forget and 
abandon her lover. He, in his turn, waa 
filled with the extremest anguish when 
informed that she had given him up. Ano- 
iner event occurred to add to the tormeuti 




Jk^ 



S4 



LIFE OF BURNS 



of the unhappy poet Jean, to avoid the 
iininf'diate pressure of her father's dis- 
pleasure, went about the mouth of JNIay 
(I786j to Paisley, and took refuge with a 
relation of her mother, one Aiulrew Purdie, 
a wrig-ht. There was at Paisley a certain 
Robert Wilson, a good-lookinj; yoim^ 
weft\er, e native of Mauchline, and who was 
realising' wages to the amount of perhaps 
three pounds a-week by his then flourishing 
profession. Jean Armour had danced with 
this "gallant weaver" at the Mauchline 
diiiciiig-school balls, and, besides her 
relative Purdie, she knew no other person 
in Paisley. Being in much need of a 
8mall supply of money, she found it neces- 
Bary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who received 
her kindly, although he did not conceal that 
he had a suspicion of the reason of her visit 
to Paisley. When the reader is reminded 
that village life is not the sphere in which 
high-wronght and romantic feelings are 
ni.jst apt to flourish, he will be prepared 
in some measure to learn that Robert 
Wilson not only relieved the necessities 
of the fair applicant, but formed the wish to 
possess himself of her hand. lie called for 
her several times at Purdie's, and informed 
her, that, if she should not become the wife 
of Burns, he would engage himself to none 
while she remained unmarried. ]\Irs. 
Burns long after assured a female friend 
that she never gave the least encourage- 
ment to Wilson ; but, nevertheless, his 
visits occasioned some gossip, which soon 
found its way to Mauchline, and entered the 
soul of the poet like a demoniac possession. 
He now seems to have regarded her as lost 
to him for ever, and that not purely through 
the objections of her relations, but by her 
own cruel and perjured desertion of one 
whom she had acknowledged as her hus- 
band. It requires these particulars, little 
as there may be of pleasing about them, to 
make us fully understand much of what 
Burns wrote at this tine, both in verse and 
prose. Ijong afterwards, he became con- 
»inccd that Jean, by no part of her conduct 
with respect to Wilson, had given him just 
cause for jealousy : it is not improbaljle 
that be learned in time to make it the sub- 
ject of sport, and wrote the song, " WTiere 
Cart rins rowing to the sea," in jocidar 
allusion to it. But for months — and it is 
distressing to think t\sat these were the 
months during which he was putting his 
matchless poems for the first time to press 
' — lie conceived himself the victim of a 
failiiless woman, and life was to him, as he 
tmnself describes it. 



" a weary dream, 

Tbp dieam ol ane that never wants ■ 
In a letter dated June 12, 1786, he sayi 
" Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came 
home on Friday last. You have heard ali 
the particulars of that affair, and a black 
affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct 
now, I don't know ; one thing I do know, 
she has made me completely miserable. 
Never man loved, or rather adored, a wo. 
man more than I did her; and, to confess a 
truth between you and me, I do love her 
still to distraction, after all, though I 
won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
which I don't want to do. * * May 
Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and 
perjury to me, as I from my very soul 
forgive her." On the 9th July he writes— 
" I have waited on Armour since her return 
home, not from the least view of reconcilia. 
tion, but merely to ask for her health, and — to 
you I will confess it — from a foolish hanker* 
ing fondness — very ill-placed indeed. The 
mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean 
show the penitence that might have been 
expected. However, the priest, I am in. 
formed, will give me a certilicate as a single 
man, if I comply with the rules of the 
church, which, for that very reason, I intend 
to do. I am going to put on sackcloth and 
ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to 
appear in my own seat. Peccavi, puter, 
miserere mei." 

In a letter of July 17, to Mr. Da^id 
Brice of Glasgow, the poet thus continue* 
his story : — I have already appeared pub- 
licly in church, and was indulged in thfa 
liberty of standing in my owm seat. Jeaa 
and lier friends insisted much that she 
should stand along with me in the kirk, but 
the minister would not allow it, which bred 
a great trouble, I assure you, and I am 
blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure 
I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, 
for all that, not to have had her company," 
And again, July 30 — " Armour has got a 
warrant to throw me in jail till I find secu- 
rity for an enormous sum. This they keep 
an entire secret, but I got it by a channel 
they little dream of ; and I am wandering 
from one friend's house to another, ajid, 
like a true sou of the gospel, ' have no 
where to lay my head.' I know you will 
pour an execration on her head, but spare 
the poor Ul-advisBd girl, for my sake; 
thoiigh may all the furies that rend the 
injured, enraged lover's bosom, await her 
mother until her latest hour ! I write in a 
moment of rage, reflecting on my miserubia 
situation — exiled, abauduued, forlorn," 



JEAN AR]\[OUR'S TWIN CHILDRE]?. 



89 



In this darli peri jd, or immediately before 
Jt (J uly 2'2), the poet si<;ned an instrument, 
in anticipation of his immediately leaving- 
the kingdom, by which he devised all 
property of whatever kind he might leave 
belii'id, including the copyright of his 
poems, to his brother Gilbert, in considera- 
tion of tlie latter having undertaken to 
lupport his daughter Elizabeth, the issue of 
"Elizabeth Paton in Eargieside." Intmia- 
tion of tliis instrument was p\iblicly made 
at the Cross of Ayr, two days after, by 
^^■illlanl Chalmers, writer. If he had been 
upon better terms with the Armours, it 
seems unlikely that he would have thus 
de\ ised his property without a respect for 
the claims of his offspring by Jean. 

After this we hear no more of the legal 
severities of Mr. Armour — the object of 
which was, not to abridge the liberty of the 
unfortunate Burns, but to drive him away 
from the country, so as to leave Jean more 
effectually disengaged. The Poems now 
appeared, and probably had some effect ia 
allaying the hostility of the old man to- 
wards their author. It would at least 
ajipear that, at the time of Jean's accouche- 
ment, September 3, the " skulking " bad 
ceased, and the parents of the yoxuig woman 
were not so cruel as to forbid his seeing her. 
We now resume the story of John Blane. 

At this time, Blane had removed from 
Mossgiel to llauchline, and Itecome servant 
to Mr. Gavin Hamilton; but Burns still 
remembered their old acquaintance. When, 
in consequence of information sent by the 
Armours as to Jean's situation, the poet 
came from Mossgiel to visit her, he called 
in passuig at Mr. Hamilton's, and asked 
John to accompany him to the houst 
Blane went with him to Mr. Armour's, 
where, according to his recollection, the 
bard was received with all desirable civility. 
Jean held up a pretty female infant to 
Burns, who took it affectioMately in his 
arms, and, after keeping it a httle while, 
retiiriitd it to the mother, asking the bless- 
ing of God Almighty upon her and her 
infant. He was turning away to converse 
with the other people in the room, when 
Jean said, archly, " But this is not all — here 
is another baby," and handed him a male 
child, which had been born at the same 
time. He was g'-eatly surprised, but took 
ohat child too for a little uito his arms, and 
repeated his blessing upon it. (This child 
ras afterwards named Robert, and still 
lives : tlu! girl was named Jean, but only 
lived fourteen months.) The mood of the 
melancholy poet theu changed to the mirth- 



ful, and the scene was concluded by tiia 
giving the ailing lady a hearty caress, and 
rallying her on this promising beginning of 
her history as a mother. 

It would appear, from the words used by 
the poet on this occasion, that he was not 
without hope of yet making good his matri- 
monial alliance with Jean. Tliis is rendered 
the more likely by the evidence which exists 
of his having, for some time during Sep- 
tember, entertained a hope of obtaining an 
excise appointment, through his friendt 
Hamilton and Aiken ; in which case he 
would have been able to present a respect- 
able claim upon the countenance of the 
Armours. But this prospect ended in dii^ 
appointment ; and there is reason to con- 
clude, that, in a very short time after the 
accouchement, he was once more forbidilea 
to visit the house in which his children and 
all but wife resided. There was at this tima 
a person named John Kennedy, who tra- 
velled the district on horseback as mercan« 
tile agent, and was on intimate terms with 
Burns. One day, as he was passing Moss- 
giel, Burns stopped him, and made the 
request that he would return to jMauchline 
w ith a present for " liis poor wife." Kennedy 
consented, and the poet hoisted upon the 
pommel of the saddle a bag liUed with the 
j delicacies of the farm. He proceeded to 
Mr. Armour's house, and requested per» 
mission to see Jean, as the bearer of a 
message and a present from Robert Burns. 
Mrs. Armour violently protested against his 
being admitted to an interview, and be- 
stowed upon him sundry unceremonious 
appellations for being the friend of such a 
man ; she was, however, overnded in this 
mstance by her husband, and Kennedy v\aa 
permitted to enter the apartment where 
Jean was lying. He had not been there 
many minutes, when he heard a rushing 
and screaming in the stair, and, immediately 
after. Burns burst into the room, followed 
closely by the Armoiurs, who seemed to have 
exhausted their strength in endeavouring to 
repel his intrusion. Burns flew to the bed, 
and putting his cheek to Jean's, and then in 
succession to those of ihe slumbering 
infants, wept bitterly. The Armours, it is 
added by Kennedy, who has himself re- 
ported the circumstances (45), remamed un- 
affected by his distress ; but whether he 
was allowed to remain for a short time, or 
immediately after expelled, is not mentioned. 
After hearing this affecting anecdote of 
Burns, the Lament may verUy appear to ca 
as arising from 

" iso idly feigried poetie pains," (46) 




iiiiHiniiiiiiininiiiniiiiiniiiniir 

i;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinriiiiiiiiiiHi:iiiiii 




se 



LIFE OF BUENS, 



Tlie wliole course of the Ayr is fine ; bnt 
jLe banks of that river, as it heuds to tlie 
zastward above jNIauchline, are singularly 
beautiful, and they were frequented, as may 
be imagined, by our poet in his solitary 
walks. Here the muse often visited him. 
In one of these wanderings, he met among 
the woods, a celebrated beauty of the west 
of Scotland — a lady, of whom it is said that 
the charms of her person correspond witk 
the character of her mind. (47) This inci- 
dent gave 'rise, as might be expected, to a 
poem, of which an account will be found in 
ths following letter, in which he enclosed it 
to the object of his inspiration : — 



"To Miss 



"Mossgiel, ISth November, 178G. 

•Madam.— Poets are such outre beings, 
BO much the the children of wayward fancy 
and capricious whim, that I believe the 
world generally allows them a larger latitude 
in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons 
of judgment and prudence. I mention this 
as an apology for the hberties that a name- 
less stranger has taken \nth you in the 
enclosed poera, which he begs leave to pre- 
sent you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am 
not the proper judge, but it is the best 
my abilities can produce : and what to a 
good heart x^ill perhaps be a superior grace, 
it is equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real 
life, though I dare say, madam, you do not 
recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed 
the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. 
I had roved out as chance directed, in the 
favourite haunts (rf my muse, on the banks 
of the Ayr, to view nature hi all the gaiety 
of the vernal year. The evening sun was 
flaming over the distant v^estern liills ; not 
a breath stirred the crimson opening 
blossom, or the verdant sipreaduig leaf It 
was a golden moment iit a poetic heart. 
I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring 
their harmony on every hand, with a eon- 
genial kindred regard, and frequently 
turned out of my path, h;st 1 should disturb 
their httle songs, or frighten them to 
another station. Surely, said I to myself, 
he must be a wretch indeed, who, regard- 
less of your harmonious endeavours to 
please teui, can eye your elusive flights to 
discover your secret recesses, and to rob you 
of all the property nature gives you, your 
dearest comforts, your helj)less nestlings. 
Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot 
across the way, what heart at such a time 
but must ha>e been interested iu its wel- 



fare, and wished it preserved from tlw 
rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering east- 
ern blast? Such was the scene, and such the 
hour, when, iu a corner of my prospect, ] 
spied one of the fairest pieces of nature'* 
workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
landscape, or met a poet's eye ; those vision- 
ary bards excepted who hold commerce with 
aerial beings ! Had calumny and villany 
taken my walk, they had at that moment 
sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! 
It would have raised plain, dull, liistorie 
prose into metaphor and measure. 

"The enclosed song was the work of my 
return home ; and perhaps it but poorly 
answers what might have been expected 
from such a scene. (48) * * * 

"I ha\e the honour to be, madam, yo'Ti 
most obedient, and very humble servant, 
"Robert Burns." 
'Twas even— the dewy fields were green. 

On every blade the pearls hanar : (49) 
The Zopliyr wanton'd round the bean, 
And bore its fragrant sweets alanjj ; 
In every tclen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the whila^ 
Except wliere greenwood echoes rang, 

Aniang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her looii was like the morning's eye. 
Her hair like nature's vernal smUe, 
Perfection whisjicred passing bv, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! (50) 
Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild; 
When roving through the garden gay. 

Or wandcr}ng in the lonely wild : 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile J 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bony lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Oh had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain ! 
T'.ough sheltered in the lowest shed 
Tli:it ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Til rough weary winter's wind and rain, 
Witli joy, with rapture I would toil; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Then pride might climb the slippery steej^ 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And tliirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 
With the bony lass o' Ballochmyle." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
lias recounted this incident, and uito which 
the letter and poem are copied, he complaini 
that the lady made no reply to his eJl'usiona, 







BUSCEPTIBILIXr OF BUENS. 



37 



tnd this appears to have wounded his self- 
love. It is not, liowevei difficult to find an 
excuse for her silence. Bums was at this 
time little known ; and, ^'here known at all, 
noted rather fur the wild streu<<th of his 
humour, than for those strains of tenderness 
in w hich he afterwards so much excelled. To 
the lady herself liis niune had, perhaps, never 
been mciiitioned, and of such a poem she 
nii'jrht not consider herself as the proper 
judge. Her modesty might prevent her 
from perceiving that the mu^e of TibuUus 
breariied in this nameless poet, and that her 
bejuity was awakening strains destmed to im- 
mortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may 
be conceived, also, that supposing the verse 
duly appreciated, delicacy might find it diffi- 
cult to express its acknowledgments. The 
fervent imagination of the rustic bard pos- 
8e.=.sed more of tenderness than of respect. 
Instead of raising liini.'.elf to the condition of 
the object of his admiration, he presumed to 
reduce her to his own, and to strain this 
higii-born beauty to his daring bosom. It is 
true, Burns might have found precedents for 
such freedoms among the poets of Greece 
and Rome, and, indeed, of every country. 
And it is not to be denied, that lovely wo- 
men have generally submitted to this sort of 
profuiation with patience, and even with 
giiod humour. To what ]uirpose is it to re- 
pine at a misfortune which is the necessary 
consequence of their owm charms, or to re- 
monstrate with a description of men who are 
incapable of control ? 

" The lunntic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imatfination all compact." 

It '.nay be easily presumed, that the beau- 
tifiil nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she 
may have been, did not reject with scorn the 
adorations of our poet, though she received 
them with silent modesty and dignified 
reserve. 

Tiie sensibility of our bard's temper, and 
the force of his imagination, exposed him, in 
a particular manner, to the impressions of 
beauty ; and these qualities, united to his 
■jupassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a 
powerful influence over the female heart. 
The banks of the Ayr formed tlie scene of 
youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, 
the history of which it would be improper to 
reveal, «ere it even in our power; and the 
traces of which will soon be discoverable only 
ia those strains of nature and sensibility to 
winch they gave birth. The song entitled 
Highland Alary is known to relate to one of 
these attachments. ' It was written/' says 
our bard, " on one of the most interesting 
^sagea of my youthful days." The object 



of this passion died early in life, and the im« 
prassion left on the mind of Bums seems to 
have been deep and lasting. (31) Several 
years afterwards, when he was removed to 
Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of 
his recollections in the following impassioned 
lines. In the manuscript book from which 
we extract them, they are addressed To Mary 
m Heaven ! 

" Thou linp-erin? star, with less'ning ray. 

That lov'st to preet the early morn, 
Afrain thou usher"st in the day 

My JIary from my ."^oul was torn. 
I Oh, Mary ! dnar departed shade ! 
! Wtiere is thy place of blissful reatf 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the j;roans'that rend his breast I 

That sacred hour can I forsjct. 

Can I forget the hallowed K'rove, 
Where by the windinar Ayr sve met 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past J 
Thy imase at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 
Ayr trurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erliunsr with wild woods, tkick'ninj, 
green ; 
The frai;rant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west' 

i'roclaiin'd the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakea^ 

And fondly broods with miser "cure ; 
Time but the impie-sioii stronger makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed sluide ' 
. Where is thy jilace of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lo\ er lowly laid 1 [breast V* 

Uear'st thou the groans that rend his 

To the delineations of the poet by himself 
by his brother, and by his tutor, these addi- 
tions are necessary, ui order that the reader 
may see his character in its various aspects, 
and may have an opportunity of forming a 
just notion of the variety, as well as of ih< 
power of his original genius. (52) 

We have dwelt the longer on the early 
part of his life, because it is the least known, 
and because, as has already been mentioned, 
this part of his history is connected with 
some views of the condition and manners of 
the humblest ranks of society, hitherto little 
observed, and which w ill perhaps be found 
neither useless nor uninterestuig. 

About the time of his leaving his native 
county, his correspondence commences ; and 
in the series of letters given to the world, 
the chief incidents of the renaiuuig part o( 
his life will be found. I'his authentic, 
th.ough melaucho'y record, will supersede ia 



LIFE OF BURN 3. 



f'-itiire tlic necessity of any extended narra- 
live. 

Burns set out for Edinbiir^ii in the month 
of November, 1786. He was furnished \rith 
k letter of introduction to Dr. Blaoklock 
(53), from tlie gentleman to whom the doctor 
had addressed the letter which is represented 
by oat bard as the immediate cause of his 
visiting the Srottish metropolis. He was 
•equainted with Mr. Stewart, Professor of 
]\Ioral Philosophy in the university, and 
had been entertained by that gentleman at 
Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had 
been introduced by jNIr. Alexander Dalzed 
(54) to the Earl of Glencairn, w ho had ex- 
pressed his high approbacion of his poetical 
talents. He had friends, therefore, who 
could introduce him into the circles of lite- 
rature as well as of fashion, and his own 
manners and appearance exceeding every 
expectation that could have been formed of 
them, he soon became an object of general 
curiosity and admiration. (55) The following 
circumstance contributed to this in a con- 
siderable degree : — At the time when Burns 
arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, 
entitled The Lounger, was publishing, every 
Saturday prod\icing a successi\e number. 
His poems had attracted the notice of the 
gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and 
the ninety-seventh number of those unequal, 
though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted 
to An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire 
Ploughman, with extracts from his Poems, 
written by the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie. 
The Lounger had an extensive circulation 
among persons of taste and literature, not 
in Scotland only, but in various parts of 
England, to whose acquaintance, therefore, 
our bard was immediately introduced. The 
paper of ]Mr. Mackenzie was calculated to 
introduce him advantageously. The extracts 
«re wel! selected ; the criticisms and reflec- 
tions are judicious as well as generous; and 
in the style and sentiments there is that 
happy delicacy, by which the writings of the 
author are so eminently distinguished. The 
extracts from Burns's poems in the ninety- 
8e\ enth number of The Lounger, were copied 
into the Ijondon as well as into many of the 
provincial papers, and the fame of our bard 
spread throughout the island. Of the 
mannexs, character, and conduct of Burns at 
this i)eriod, the f illo\\'ing account has been 
given by Sir. Stewart, Professor of Moral 
Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, 
in a letter to the editor, which he is jjarticu- 
Urly liappy to have obtained permission to 
insert in these memoirs : — 

" The lirst time I saw Robert Burns Tas 



on the 23v<\ of October, 1786, when hedmed 
at my li ouse in Ayrshire, together with our 
commo.i friend Mr. John ]Mackenzie, surgeon 
in Mauchtine, to whom I am indebted for the 
pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled 
to mention the date particularly, by some 
verses which Burns wrote after he returned 
home, and in which the day of our meeting 
is recorded. My excellent and much lamented 
friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened 
to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by 
the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
left an impression on the mind of the poet 
which was never effaced. (56) The verses 1 
allude to are among the most imperfect of 
his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhapi 
be an object of curiosity to you, both on 
account of the character to which they relate, 
and of the light which they throw on the 
situation and feelings of the \\Titer, before 
his name was known to the public. 

I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our tirst 
acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet 
in the press. I suspect that the latter was 
the case, as I have still in my possession 
copies in his own handwriting of some of his 
favourite performances; particularly of his 
verses On Turning up a Mouse with his 
Plough ; on the Mountain Daisy ; and The 
Lament. On my return to Edinburgh, I 
showed the volume, and mentioned what I 
knew of the author's history to several of 
my friends ; and among others to Mr. Henry 
]\Iackenzie, who first recommended him to 
public notice in the 97th number of The 
Lounger. 

" At this time Burns's prospects in life 
were so extremely gloomy, that he had 
seriously formed a ]ilau of going out to 
Jamaica in a very humble situation, not 
however \rithout lamenting that his want of 
patronage should force him to think of n 
project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
liis ambition aimed at no higher an object 
than the station of an exciseman or ganger 
ill his own country. 

"His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and inde- 
pendent ; strongly expressive of consciom 
genius and worth, but without any thing that 
indicated forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. 
He took his share in conversation, but not 
more than belonged to him ; and listened 
with apparent attention and deference oa 
subjects where his want of education de- 
prived him of the mear.J of information. If 
there had been a little more of gentleness 
and accommodation in his temper, he would. 




c~^^~^^^ 







iii:i!iiiii!iiii:iiiiiii!iiiiiiiiirN^^^_^ 



BURNS VISITS EDIXLURGH. 



S5 



t think, have been still more interesting; 
but he had been accustomed to give law in 
the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and 
his dread of any tiling approaching to mean- 
aess or servility, rendered his manner some- 
(pluit decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, 
was more remarkable among his various at- 
laiaments, than the fluency, and precision, 
*nd originality of his language, when he 
spc'ke in company ; more particularly as he 
iimed at purity in his turn of expression, 
i»nd avoided more successfully than most 
Scotchmen the peculiarities of Scottish 
phraseologj'. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
/ollowing, and remained there for several 
'nonths. By whose advice he took this 
rtep, I am unable to say. Perhaps it was 
ijnggested only by his own curiosity to see a 
tttle more of the world ; but, I confess, I 
dreaded the consequences from the first, 
tnd always wished that his pursuits and 
liabits should continue the same as in the 
former part of life — with the addition of, 
what I considered as then completely within 
his reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in 
a part of the country agreeal)le to his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay 
in town from all ranks and descriptions of 
persons, were such aa would have turned 
any head but his own. I cannot say that I 
cotild perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind. He retained 
the same simplicity of manners and ap- 
pearance which had struck me so forcibly 
when I first saw him in the country ; nor 
did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the niimber and rank of liis 
new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly 
suited to his station, plain and unpretend- 
ing, vnth a sufficient attention to neatness. 
If 1 recollect right, he always wore boots ; 
and, when on more than u.sual ceremony, 
buckskin breeches. 

" The variety of his eagagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him 
Bo often as I could have wished. In the 
course of the spring, Ire called on me once 
or ts ice, at my re([uest, early in the morn- 
ing, and walked with me to Braid Hills, in 
the neighbourhood of the town, when he 
charmed me still more by his private con- 
versation than he had ever done in company. 
He was passionately fond of the beauties of 
nature ; and I recollect once he told me, 
when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our mi/rning walks, that the sight of 
so many smoicing cottages gave a pleasure 
to liis mind, which none could imderstand 
who had not witnessed, like himself, the 

5 



happiness and the worth which they con- 
tained. 

"In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partlj 
to this, that his father was originally from 
the estate of Lord Mareschal. Indeed, he 
did not appear to have thought much oa 
such subjects, nor very consistently. He 
had a very strong sense of religion, and ex- 
pressed deep regret at the levity with which 
he had heard it treated occasionally in some 
convivial meetings which he frequented. I 
speak of him as he was in the winter of 
1786-7; for afterwards we met bit seldom, 
and our conversations turned chiefly cu his 
literary projects, or his private allairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or 
not from any of your letters to ine, that 
you had ever seen Burns. (57) If you have, 
it is superfluous for me to add, that the 
idea which his conversation conveyed of the 
powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, 
that which is suggested by his wTitings. 
Among the poets whom I have happened to 
know, 1 have been struck, in more than one 
instance, with the unaccountable disparity 
between their general talents, and the occa- 
sional inspirations of their more favoured 
moments. But all the faculties of Burns's 
mind, were, as far as I could judge, equally 
vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry 
was rather the result of his own entlmsiastic 
and impassioned temper, than of a genius 
exchisively adapted to that species of com- 
position. From his conversation I should 
have pronounced him to be titled to excel in 
whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to 
exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he waj 
accustomed to dwell, the characters of the 
individuals with whom he happened to meet, 
was plainly a favourite one. The remarks 
he made on them were always shrewd and 
pointed, though frequently inclining too 
much to sarcasm. His praise of those he 
loved was sometimes indiscriminate and 
extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded 
rather rather ft-om the caprice and humour 
of the moment, than from the effects of 
attachment in blinding his judgment. His 
wit was ready, and always impressed with 
the mark.'-, of a vigorous understanding ; but, 
to my taste, not often pleasing or happy, 
His attempts at epigram, in his printed 
works, are the only performances, perhaps, 
that he has produced totally unworthy at 
his genius. 

"In summer 1787, 1 passed some weekt 
in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. 
I think that he made n pretty long exctuk 




c/Mj^\>\.^/- 



m^ 



-^^i^nm 




40 



LIFE OP BURXa. 



gion thaf; seMon to the Highlands, and that 
he also ^ isited what Beattie calls the Arca- 
dian ground of Scotland, upon the banks of 
the Teviot and the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that, not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during 
the preceding winter, of Eurns's predilection 
for convivial, and not very select seciety, I 
ihould have concluded in favour of his 
habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever 
fell under my own observation. He tolil me 
indeed himself, that the weakness of his 
gtomacli was such as to deprive him entirely 
of any merit in his temperance. I was, 
however, somewhat alarmed about the effect 
of his now comparatively sedoutary and 
luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the 
first night he spent in my house after his 
winter's campaign in town, that he had 
been much disturbed when in bed, by a 
palpitation at his heart, wliich, he said, was 
a complaint to which he had of late become 
subject. 

" la the course of the same season, I was 
led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two 
a Ma-!on Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some 
short unpremeditated compliments to differ- 
ent individuals from whom he had no reason 
to expect a visit, and everything he said 
was happily conceived, and forcibly as well 
as llueutly expressed. If I am not mistaken, 
^e t:)ld me, that in that village, before goiu;.;' 
to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small 
elub of such of the inhabitants as had a 
taste for books, when they used to converse 
and debate on any interesting questions that 
occurred to them in the course of theii 
reading. His manner of spealdng in public 
hail evidently the marks of some practice in 
exteiupin'e elocution. 

" 1 must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristical in <i 
hi^h degree of true genius, the extremi 
facility and good-nature of his taste, in 
j-dging of the compositions of others 
where there was any real ground for praise 
1 repeated to him many passages of English 
poetry with which he was unacquainted, and 
have more than once witnessed the tears of 
admiration and rapture with which he heard 
them. The collection of songs by L)r. 
Aikin, which I first put into his hands, he 
read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
his former efforts in that very difficult 
species of writing ; and I have little doubt 
that it liad some effect iu polishing his sub- 
sequent compositions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his 
taate waa equally sound. I oace read to 



him a passage or two in Franklin's worRs^ 
which I thought very happily execnteil, 
upon the model of Addison ; but he did not 
appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty 
which they derived from their exquisite 
simplicity, and spoke of them with indiffe- 
rence, wlien compared with the point, and 
antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. The 
influence of this taste is very perceptible in 
his own prose compositions, although their 
great and various excellences render some 
of them scarcely less objects of wonder 
than his poetical performances. The late 
Dr. Robertson used to say, that consid'^ring 
his education, the former seemed to him the 
more extraordinary of the two. 

" His Tuemory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to me, 
Ireiuciitly long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; 
great part of them, he told me, he had 
learned in his childhood from his mother, 
who delighted in such recitations, and whose 
poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, 
it is presumable, the tirst direction to her 
son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which acci- 
dentally fell into his hands in his early 
years, he mentioned particularly the recom- 
mendatory poems by different authors, pre- 
rlxed to Hervey's Meditations ; a book 
which has always had a very wide circula- 
tion among such of the country people of 
Scotland as affect to unite some degree of 
taste with their religious studies. And 
these poems (although they are certainly 
Ijelow mediocrity) he continued to read with 
.1 degree of rapture beyond expression, lie 
took notice of this fact himself, as a proof 
how much the taste is liable to be influ- 
enced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the 
account he gave of him, to have been a 
respectable and worthy character, possessed 
of a mind superior to what might have been 
expected from his station in life. He as- 
cribed much of his own principles and feel- 
ings to the early impressions he had receive-l 
from his instructions and example. 1 recol- 
lect that he cice applied to him (and, he 
added, that the passage was a literal state- 
ment of the fact) the two last" lines of tlia 
following passage in the Minstrel, the whole 
of wliich he repeated with great enthusiasm ; 

' Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive; 

Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bill him, though doom'd to perish, iut^i: t« 
live! 



S^"^! 

v^)'^ 




LITERARY RECEPTION OF BURNS. 



4V 



ts it 'or this fair rirhie oft mtist strive 

"^Vith disappointment, penury, and pain? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring sliall yet 
arrive ; 
And man's majestic beauty bloom a!!:ain, 
Eri^bt tliro' tb' eternal year of love's tri- 
umphant rei?n. [taught : 
This truth snhlimfi his simple sire had 
In soot/i, 'twas almost all the shepherd 
knew.' 

" With respect to Burns's early education, 
I ctnnot say anything witli certainty. He 
tiways spoke with respect and gratitude of 
the schoohnaster who had taught him to 
read Englisli, and who, finding in liis scholar 
a more than ordinary ardour for kno^^'ledge, 
had been at pains to instruct him in the 
grammatical principles of the langnage. He 
began the study of Latin, but dropt it 
before he had finished the verbs. I have 
sometimes heard him quote a few Latin 
words, such as omnia viiicit amor, &c., but 
they seemed to be such as he had caught 
from conversation, and whicli he repeated 
by role. I think he had a project, after he 
came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the 
study under his intimate friend, tl>e late 
Mr. Nicnl, one of the masters of the gram- 
riar-school here ; but I do not know that 
he ever proceeded so far m to make the 
attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French ; and if he had an afl'ectation in 
anything, it was in introducing occasionally 
a word or phrase from that langua^'e. It is 
possible that his knowledge in this respect 
might be more extensive than I suppose it 
to be ; but this you can learn from his more 
intimate acquaintance. It would be worth 
w iiile to inquire, whether he was able to 
read the French avxthors with such facility 
as to receive from thera any improvement 
to his taste. I'or my own part, I doubt it 
mnrh ; nor would I believe it, but on very 
•tMii^- and pointed evidence. 

"If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew 
something of pi'actical geometry, particu- 
larly of surveying. All his other attain- 
ments were entirely his own. 

" Tlie last time I saw hira was during the 
winter 1788-89,(59) when he passed an 
evening with me at Drumseugli, in the 
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, where I was 
then living. Jly friend, J\Ir. Alison, was 
the only other person in company. I never 
»&\Y him more agreeable or interesting. A 
{result which Mr. Alison sent him after- 
wards of his Essays on Taste, drew from 
Bums a letter of acknowledgment, which I 
■emembcr to have read with some de:a'ce of 



surprise, at the distinct conception he ap 
peared from it to have formed of the genera! 
principles of the doctrine of association." (60) 

The scene that opened on our bard in 
Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a 
variety of other respects highly interesting, 
especially to one of his disposil:iou of mind. 
To use an expression of his own, he found 
himself "suddenly translated from the 
veriest shades of life," into the presence, 
and, indeed, into the society, of a number 
of persons, previously known to him by 
report as of the highest distinction in his 
country, and whose characters it was natural 
for him to examine with no common curi- 
osity. (61) 

From the men of letters, in general, his 
reception was particularly flattering. The 
late Dr. Robertson, Dr. I?lair, Dr. Gregory, 
Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and ]\Ir. Fraser 
Tytler, may be mentioned in the hst ol 
those who perceived his uncommon talents, 
who acknowledged more especially hia 
jiowers in conversation, and who interested 
themselves in the cultivation of his 
genius. (62) In Edinburgh literary and 
fashionable society are a good deal mixed. 
Our bard was an acceptaljle guest in the 
gayest and most elevated circles, and fre- 
qiiently received from female beauty and 
elegance those attentions above all others 
most grateful to him. (63) At the table of 
Lord Jlonboddo he was a freqiicnt guest ; 
and while he enjoyed the society, and par- 
took of the hospitalities of the venerable 
judge, he experienced the kindness and con- 
descension of his lovely and accomjilished 
daughter. The singular beauty of this 
young lady was illuminated by that happy 
expression of countenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and 
superior understanding with the finest affec- 
tions of the mind. The influence of such 
attractions was not unfelt by our poet. 
"There has not been anything like Miss 
Burnet," said he in a letter to a friend, "ia 
all the combination of beauty, grace, and 
goodness, the Creator has formed since 
Milton's Eve on the first day of her exist- 
ence." In his Address to Edinburgh, she 
is celebrated in a stram of still greater 
elevation : — 

" Fair Burnet strikes th' adorning eye, 
Heaven's beauties oil my fancy shine! 
I see the Sire of Love on hisrh. 
And own his work indeed divine I" 

Tliis lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of youth. Our bard 
expressed his sensibility on that (jccasion 
in verses addiessed to her memory. 







ft? 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



Amoiis: the men of rank and fashion, 
Burns was particnlarly distinguished by 
James, Earl of Glencairn. (G4) On the 
Dioaon of this nobleman, the Caledonian 
Hunt, an association of the principal of the 
nobility and gentry of Scotland, extended 
their patronage to our bard, and admitted 
him to their gay orgies. He repaid their 
notice by a dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which Ye 
has celebrated their patriotism and indepeoi- 
dence in very animated terms. 

"I congratulate my country that the blood 
cf her ancient hero€s runs nncontaminated, 
and that, from your courage, knowledge, and 
puL'hc spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and hberty. **»***« 
May corruption shrink at your kindling in- 
dignant glance ; and may tjTanny in the 
ruler, and licentiotisness in tlie people, 
equally find in yon an inexorable foe." 

It is to be presumed that these generous 
Beutiraents, uttered at an era singularly 
propitious to independence of character and 
conduct, were favourably received by the 
persons to whom they were addressed, and 
that they were echoed from every bosom, as 
well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. 
This accomplished nobleman, a scholar, a 
man of taste and sensibility, died soon 
afterwards. Had he lived, and had his 
power equalled his wishes, Scotland mig~'t 
still have exulted in the genius, instead of 
lamentuig the early fate of her favourite 
bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and regularity ; 
and Edinburgh, at the period of which we 
speak, contained, perhaps, an uncommon 

§ro(i<>rtion of men of considerable talents, 
evol,^•^ to social excesses, ni which their 
talents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this 
description, with the usual vehemence of his 
character. His generous afi'ections, his 
ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring 
imagination, fitted him to be the idol of such 
associations ; and accustoming himself to 
conversation of unlimited range, and to festive 
indulgences that scorned restraint, he gra- 
dually lost some portion of his relish for the 
more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be 
found in the circles of taste, elegance, and 
literature. This sudden alteration in his 
habits of life operated on him physically as 
well as morally. The humble fare of an 
Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the 
luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
effects of this change on his ardc;it constitu- 
tion could not be iuconsiderabl* But 



whatever influerce might be produced on his 
conduct, his excellent understanding suffered 
no corresponding debasement. He estimated 
his friends and associates of every descrip- 
tion at their proper value, and appreciated 
bis own conduct with a precision that might 
give scope to much curious and melancholy 
reflection. He saw his danger, and at times 
formed resolutions to guard agahist it ; but 
he had embarked on the tide of dissipation, 
and was borne along its stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an 
authentic, though imperfect, doc-.unent re- 
mains, in a book which he procured in the 
spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he hiin^elf 
informs us, of recording in it whatever 
seemed worthy of observation. The followiaj 
extracts may serve as a specimen : — 

"Edinburgh, Apr-l 9, 1787. 

" As I have seen a good deal of human 
life in Edinburgh, a great many character* 
which are new to one bred up in the sliades 
of life as I have been, I am determined to 
take down my remarks on the spot. Gray 
observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that 
' half a word fixed upon, or near the spot, ia 
worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't 
know how it is with the world in general, 
but with me, making my remarks is by no 
means a solitary pleasure. I want some one 
to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, 
some one to please me and help my discrimi- 
nation, with his or her own remark, and at 
times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and 
penetration. The world are so busied with 
selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or 
pleasure, that very few think it worth their 
while to make any observation on what 
passes around them, except where that ob- 
servation is a sucker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor 
am I sure, notwithstanding all the senti- 
mental flights of novel-writers, and tlie sage 
philosophy of moralists, whether we are 
capable of so intimate and cordial a coalition 
of friendship, as that one man may pour out 
his bosom, his every thought and floating 
fancy, his very inmost soiU, with unreserved 
confidence to another, without hazard of 
losing part of that respect which man deseivca 
fi'ora man; or, from the unavoidable imper- 
fections attending humannature, of one day 
repenting his confidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to 
make these pages my confidant. 1 will sketch 
every character that any way strikes me, to 
the best of my power, with unshrinking 
justice. I will msert anecdotes, and take 
down remarks, in the old laiv phrase, wi7/(ou< 



:i:;iiiii!iiiMiiiiiiiniiiiii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirjiniiiii[iininii'iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii;Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 







BDENS AND HIS CONTEMPOEAEIES. 



4a 



feiid or favour. "Where I hit on any thing 
clever, my own applause wiU in some measure 
feast my vanity ; and, beiigiiig Patrocliis' 
and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key 
■ security, at least equal to the bosom of any 
friend whatever. 

'• -My own private story likewise, my love 
adventures, my rambles; the frowns and 
smiles of fortime on my hardship ; my poems 
tnd fragments, that must never see the light, 
shall be occasionally inserted. In short, 
never did four shillings purchase so much 
friendship, since confidence went first to 
market, of- honesty was set up to sale. 

"To these seemingly invidious, but too 
just ideas of human friendship, I woidd 
cheerfully make one exception — the connec- 
tion between two persons of different sexes, 
when their interests are united aud absorbed 
by the tie of love — 

' When tliouaht meets thought, ere from the 

lips it part, [heart.' 

And each warm wish springs mutual from tha 

There confidence, confidence that exalts them 
the !iiore in one another's opinion, that en- 
dears them the more to each other's hearts, 
unreservedly 'reigns andre\els.' But this 
is not my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am 
wise (which, by the bye, I have no great 
chance of being), my fate should be cast 
with the Psalmist's sparrow, ' to watch alone 
on the house tops.* Oh the pity I 
****** 

"Tliere are few of the sore evils under 
the sun give me more uneasiness and 
chagrin than the comparison how a man of 
genius, nay of avowed worth, is received 
every where, with the reception which a 
mere ordinary character, decorated with the 
trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, 
meets. I imagine a man of abilities, liis 
breast glowing with honest pride, conscious 
that men are born equal, still giving honour 
(c whom honour is due; he meets at a great 
man's table, a Squire sometliing, or a Sir 
Homebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at 
heart, gives the bard or whatever he is, a 
share o ' his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, 
any one at table ; yet how will it mortify 
him to see a fellow whose abilities would 
scarcely have made an eUjhtpenny tailor, and 
whose heart is not worth three farthings, 
meet with attention and notice, that are 
withheld from the son of genius aud 
poverty ! 

"The noble Glencairnhas wounded me to 
the soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
respect , and love him. He showed so much 
attention, engrossing attention, one day, 
Vt the only blockhead at table (the whole 



company consisted of his lordship, duudcr- 
pate, and myself), that I was within haif a 
point of thro^ving down my gage of con- 
temptuiius defiance ; but he shook my hand, 
i and looked so benevolently good at parting 
I God bless him ! tliough I should never see 
him more, I shall love him until my djing 
day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable 
of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably 
deficient in some other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I 
never respect him with humble veneration ; 
but when he kindly interests himself in my 
welfare, or still more, when he descends 
from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal 
ground in conversation, my heart overflows 
with what is called liking. "When he neg- 
lects me for the mere carcase of greatness, 
or when his eye measures the diflerence of 
our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for bim 
or his pomp either ? " 

The intentions of the p/oet in procuring 
this book, so fully described by himself, 
were very imperfectly executed. He has 
inserted in it few or no incidents, but seve- 
ral observations and reflections, of which 
the greater part that are proper for the 
public eye will be found interwoven in his 
letters. The most curious particidars in 
the book are the delineations of the charac- 
ters he met with. These are not numerous ; 
but they are chiefly of persons of distinc- 
tion in the republic of letters, and nothing 
but the delicacy and resjiect due to living 
characters prevents us from committing 
them to the press. Though it appears that 
in his conversation he was sometimes dis- 
posed to sarcastic remarks on the men with 
whom he lived, nothing of this kind is dis- 
coverable in these more deliberate elforts of 
his understanding, which, while they exhibit 
great clearness of discrimination, manifest 
also the wish, as well as the power, to 
bestow high and generous praise. 

As a sjiecimen of these delineations, we 
give tlie character of Dr. Blair, who has 
now paid the debt of nature, in the full 
confidence that tliis freedom will not be 
found inconsistent with the respect and 
veneration due to that excellent man, the 
last stir in the literary constellation, by 
which the metropolis of Scotland ^ js, in 
the earlier part of the present reign, so 
beautifully illuminated. 

" It is not easy forming an exact judg. 
ment of any one ; but, in my opinion, l)r, 
Blair is merely an astcuisliing procjf of 
what industry and app ication can do. 
NaturU parts like hia are frequently to ha 



LIFE OF BUfiNS. 



met with ; his vanity is provertWiTly known 
araciii^ his acquaintance ; but lie is justly at 
the head of what may be called rtne writing ; 
and a critic of the tix<t, the very tirst, rank 
in prose ; even in poetry, a bai'd of Nature's 
makiiij; can only take the 2J"s of his lie 
has a heart not of the very tiuest water, hut 
far from being an ordinary one. In short, 
he is truly u worthy and most respectable 
character." 

[jMr. Cromek informs us that one of the 
poet's remarks, when he tirst came to Edin- 
burgh, was, that between the men of rustic 
Lfe and the polite world, he observed little 
difference; that in the former, though un- 
pohshed by fashion and unenlightened by 
science, he had found much observation, 
and much intelligence ; but a refined and 
accomplished woman was a thing almost 
new to him, and of which he had formed 
but a very inadequate idea. Mr. Lockhart 
adds, that there is reason to helieve that 
Biu-ns was much more a favourite amongst 
the female than the male part of elevated 
Edinburgh society to which he was intro- 
duced, and that in consequence, in all pro- 
baljility, of the greater deference he paid to 
the gentler se.K. " It is sufficiently apparent," 
adds Air. L., " that there were many points 
in Burns's conversational habits, which 
men, accustomed to the delicate observances 
of relined society, might be more willing 
to tolerate under the first excitement of 
personal curiosity, than from any very de- 
liberate estimate of the claims of such a 
genius, under such circumstances developed. 
He by no means restricted his sarcastic 
observations on those whom he encountered 
in the world to the confidence of his note- 
book, but startled ears polite with the 
Utterance of audacious epigrams, far too 
witty not to obtain general circulation in 
■0 sniidl a society as that of the northern 
capital, far too bitter not to produce deep 
resentment, far too numerous not to spread 
fear almost as widely as admiration." An 
example of his miscrupulousness ia thus 
given by Mr. Cromek. " At a private 
breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, 
the conversation turned on the poetical 
merit and pathos of Gray's Elegy, a poem 
of wliich he was enthusiastically fond. A 
clergyman present, remarkable for his love 
of paradox, and for his eccentric notions 
upon livery subject, distinguished himself 
by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on 
this ex(iuisite poein, which Burns, with 
generous warmth for the reputation of 
Gray, manfully defeudf^l. As the gentle- 
Biau's remarks wer« iai(*er general tium 



specific. Burns arged htm to bring forward 
the passages which he thoight exceptionable 
He made several attempts to quote the 
poem, but always in a blundering, inaccurate 
manner. Burns bore all this for a good 
while with his usual good-natured forbear- 
ance, 'ill at length, goaded by the fastidious 
criticisms and wretched qribblings of his 
opponent, he roused himself, and with an 
eye flashing contempt and indignation, and 
with great vehemence of gesticulation, ha 
thus addressed the cold critic : ' Sir, I now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge 
of poetry by square and rule, and after all, 
be a d — d blockhead.'" "To pass from 
these trifles," says Mr. Lockart, " it needa 
no effort of imagination to conceive what 
the sensations of an isolated set of scholars 
(ahnost all either clergymen or professors) 
must have been in the presence of this big- 
boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with 
his great flashing eyes, who having forced his 
way among them from the pluugli-tail, at a 
single stride, manifested, in the whole 
strain of his bearing and conversation, a 
most thorough conviction, that, in the 
society of the most eminent men of his 
nation, he was exactly where he was en 
titled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them 
by exhibiting even an occasional symptom 
of being flattered by their notice ; by turns 
calmly measured himself against llie most 
cidtivated understandings of his time iu 
discussion ; overpowered the boii mots of 
the most celebrated convivialists by broad 
floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
the burning life of genius ; astounded 
bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice- 
plied folds of social reserve, by compelling 
them to tremble, nay, to tremble visibly 
beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; 
and all this without indicating the smallest 
willingness to be ranked among those pro- 
fessional ministers of excitement, who are 
content to be paid iu money and smiles for 
doing what the spectators and auditors 
would be ashamed of doing in their own 
persons, even if they had the power of doing 
it ; and, last, and probably worst of aU, 
who was known to be in the habit of eiAv 
veuing societies which they would have 
scor ,ed to approach, still more frequently 
than their own, with eloquence no less 
magi ificent ; with wit in all likelihood still 
more daring; often enough, as the superiors 
whom he fronted without alarm, might hava 
guessed from the beginning, and had, ere 
long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed 
at themselves."] 

" By the new edition of hia poems, (63) 



v?^ 




THE DIARY, 



4ft 



BoTns acquired k siun of money tint 
enableil him not only to partake of the 
pleasures of E(liiibur:;h, but to gratify a 
desire he lid long entertained, of visiting 
those parts of his native country most at- 
tractive by their beauty or their grandeur ; 
a desire which the return of summer natu- 
rally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, 
Strongly interested his fancy ; and accord- 
in irly hie left Edinburgh on the 6th of JNIay, 
1787, on a tour through a country so much 
celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland. 
He travelled on horseback, and was accom- 
panied, during some part of his journey, by 
Mr. Ainslie, now wnriter to the signet, a 
g^entleman who enjoyed much of his friend- 
ship and of his contidence. Of this tour a 
jniirnal remains, which, however, contains 
only occasional remarks on the scenery, and 
which is chiefly occupied with an account of 
the author's difl'erent stages, and with his 
ob.servations on the various characters to 
whom he was introduced. In the course of 
this tour be visited ilr. Ainslie of Berrywell, 
the father of his companion ; ISlr. Brydoue, 
the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried 
a letter of introduction from Mr. ^lacken- 
«ie ; the Rev. Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, 
the historian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott of 
Wauchope ; Dr. EUiott, a physician, retired 
to a roixmtic spot ox. the banks of the 
Koole ; Sir Alexander Don; Sir James Hall 
cf Dunglass ; and a great variety of other 
respectable characters. Every where the 
fame of the poet had spread before him, 
and every where he received the most hos- 
pitable and flattering attentions. At Jed- 
burgh he continued several days, and was 
honoured by the magistrates with the free- 
dom of their borough. The following may 
lerve as a specimen of this tour, which the 
perpetual reference to liinng characters pre- 
reuts our giving at large : — 

" Saturday, May (Jth. Left Edinburgh — 
Lammer-muirliills, miserably dreary in ge- 
neral, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lansoii-edge, a glorious view of the 
Jlerse. Reach BerrjTvell. « * * 
The family meeting with my compnprion de 
toyrige, very charming ; particularly the 
Bister. « * » 

" Sunday. Went to Church at Dunse. 
Heard Dr. Bowmaker. 

" Monday. Coldstream — glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic — line bridge — 
dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and 
Mr. Foreman. Beat ]Mr. Foreman in a 
dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at I^enel- 
House with Mr. and Mrs. Erydone. • • * 



Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfust at Kelsc. '—charm, 
ing situation of the town — line bi idge ovei 
the Tweed. Enchanting views and pros- 
pects on both sides of the river, especially 
on the Scotch side. • * * \ isit 
Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it 
Riuns of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-busk 
growing where James II. was accidentally 
killed by the bursting of a cannon. A sna.ll 
old religious ruin, and a fine old garden 
planted by the religious, rooted out and 
destroyed by a Hottentot, a nuiitre d'Jiolel 
of the duke's — climate and soil of Ber- 
wickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior 
to Ayrshire — bad roads— turnip and sheep 
husbandry, their great improvements. * * ♦ 
Low markets, consequently low lands — mag- 
nificence of farmers and farm-houses. Couie 
up the Te\iot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh 
to lie, and so wish myself good-niglit. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. 
* • * * Charming romamtic situation 
of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, 
intermingled among the houses and the 
ra.ns of a once magnificiceut cathedral. All 
the towns here have the appearance of old 
rude grandeur, but extremely idle. Jed, a 
fine romantic little river. Dined ^vith 
Captain Rutherford, * ♦ • return to 
Jedburgh. "Walk up the Jed with some 
ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Black- 
burn, two fairy-scenes. Introduced to ]Mr. 
Potts, writer, and to Mr. Somerville, the 
clergyman of the parish, a man and a 
gentleman, but sadly addicted to pmiuing. 
(66). * * * * * 

" Jedburgh Saturday. Was presented by 
the magistrates with the freedom of the 
town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh with some 
melancholy sensations. 

"Monday, May I4.th, Kelso. Dine with 
the farmers' club — all gentlemen talking of 
high matters — each of them keeps a hiuiter 
from £30 to £50 value, and attends the fox- 
hunting club in the county. Go out with 
Mr. Ker, one of the club, «nd a friend of 
Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and 
matniers, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my 
dear old friend Robert Muir — every thing 
in his house elegant. He offers to accom- 
pany me in my English tovir. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander 
Do7i — a very wet day. • » * Sleep at 
]\Ir. Ktr's again, and set out next day for 
Melrose-— visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined 
abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and 
come up I lie Tweed to Melrose, Din* 



46 



LIFE OF BURNS 



there, and visit that far-famed glorious 
nnii— come to Selkirk up the banks of 
Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably 
•tony." 

Having spent three weeks in exploring 
this interesting scenery, Burns crossed over 
into Northumberland. Mr. Ker, and Mr. 
Hood, two gentlemen wth whom he had 
become acquainted in tlie course of his tour, 
accompanied him. He visited Alnwick 
Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland ; the Hermitage and Old 
Castle of Warkworth ; Morpeth and New- 
castle. In this last town he spent two 
days, and then proceeded to the south-west 
by Ilexara and Wardrne, to Carlisle. After 
spending a day at Carlisle with his friend 
Mr. Mitchel, he returned into Scotland, and 
at Annan his journal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he 
became acquainted in the course of this 
journey, he has, in general, given some ac- 
count, and almost always a favourable one. 
That on the banks of the Tweed, and of 
the Tcviot, our bard shoidd find nymphs 
that were beautiful, is what might be con- 
fidently presumed. Two of these are par- 
ticularly described in his | )Hrnal. But it 
does not appear that the scenery, or its in- 
haljitants, produced any effort of his muse, 
as was to have been wished and expected. 
From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, 
and thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, ■ where he 
arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after a 
long absence of six busy and eventful 
months. It will easily be conceived with 
■what pleasure and pride he was received by 
his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He 
had left them poor, and comparatively 
friendless ; he returned to them high in 
public estimation, and easy in his circum- 
stances He returned to them unchanged 
in his ardent affections, and ready to share 
with them to the uttermost farthing, the 
pittance that fortune had bestowed. (67) 

Having remained with them a few days. 
he proceeded a^ liu to Edinburgh, and im- 
mediately set out on a journey to the 
Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have 
been found among his manuscripts. A 
tetter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Arro- 
c/iar, by Lochlonrj, June 28, 1787, commences 
as follows : — 

" 1 write you this on my tour through a 
country where savage streams tumble over 
savage mountains, thinly overspread with 
lavage flocks, which starNangly support as 
fcivage inhabitants. My last stage was 



Inverary — to-morrow night's stAge, Dun* 
barton. I ought sooner to have ansv.eied 
your kind letter, but you know 1 am a man 
of many sins." 

Part of a letter from our bard to a friend 
(68), giving some account of his journey, has 
been conuuunicated to X^ eiiitor. The 
reader will be amused with the following 
extract : — 

"On our return, at a Highland gentle- 
man's hospitable mansion, we fell in with ■ 
merry party, and danced till the ladies left 
us, at three in the morning. Our dancing 
was none of the French or English insipid 
formal movements ; the ladies sang Scotch 
songs like angels, at intervals : then we flew 
at Bab at the bewster, Tallochqonm, Loch 
Erroch side (69), &c., like midges sporting 
in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating 
a storm in a hairst day. When the dear 
lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl till 
the good-fellow hour of six ; except a few 
minutes that we went out to pay our devo- 
tions to the glorious lamp of day peering 
over the towering top of Benlomond. We 
all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held 
the bowl, each man a fidl glass in his hand ; 
and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming uon. 
sense, like Thomas-a-Khymer's prophecies I 
suppose. After a small refreshment of the 
gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the 
day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton 
in the evening. We dined at another good 
fellow's house, and consequently push'd the 
bottle ; when we went out to mount our 
horses, we found ourselves ' No vera fou but 
gaylie yet.' IMy two friends and I rode 
soberly down the Loch side, till by came 
a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably 
good horse, but which had never known the 
ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned 
to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so o4 
we started, whip and spur. My companion?", 
though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly 
astern ; hut my old mare, JennjS' Geddes, 
one of the Rosinante family, she strained 
past the Highlandman in spite of al' his 
efforts, with the hair-halter : just as I wa« 
passing him, Donald whcdjd his horse, as if 
to cross before me to mar my ^rogTess, \\ heu 
down came his horse, and threw Ms breekless 
rider in a dipt liedge ; and down came 
Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship 
between her and the llighlandman's horse, 
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such 
cautious revvrenCB, that matters were not so 
bad as might well liave been expected ; so I 
came oft" with a few cuts and bruises, and a 
thorough resolution to be a pattern of um 
brietj for the futore. 



BimXS AND MCOL. 



47 



" 1 have yet fixed on nothing with respect 
to the serious busuiess of life. I am, just as 
nsiial, a rhjoning, mason-inakinj^, raking, 
ciiiiles?, idle fellow. However, I shall some- 
where have a farm soon. I was going to say, 
B wife too; but that must never be my 
blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the 
li'juse of Parnassus, and, like other younger 
Buns of great families, I may hitrigue, if I 
choose to run all risks, but must not marry. 

" 1 am afraid I have almost ruined one 
source, the principal one, indeed, of my 
former happiness — that eternal propensity I 
nl.vays had to fall in love. My heart no 
more glows with feverish rapture. I ha\e no 
paradisiacal evening interviews stolen from 
the restless cares and prying inhabitants of 
this weary world. I have only • * • •_ 
This last is one of your distant acquaintance, 
has a tine figure, aid elegant manners, and, 
in the train of some great folks whom you 
know, has seen the politest quarters in 
Europe. I do like her a good deal; but 
what piques me is her conduct at the com- 
mencement of our acquaintance. I frequently 

visited her when I was in , and after 

passing regularly the intermediate degrees 
between the distant formal bow and the 
familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, 
in my careless way, to talk of friendship in 
rather ambiguous terms ; and, after her 

return to , I wrote to her in the same 

style. Miss, construing my words farther I 
suppose than I intended, flew off in a tangent 
of female dignity and reserve,like a moiuitain- 
lark in an April morning ; and wrote me an 
answer which measured me out very com- 
pletely what an immense way 1 had to travel 
before 1 could reach the climate of her favour. 
Bat I am an old hawk at the sport ; and 
wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent 
reply, as brought my bird from her aiirial 
towenngs, pop down at my foot like corporal 
I'rim's hat. (70) 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, 
■nd all my wise sayings, and why my mare 
was tailed Jenny Geddes, they shall be 
recoided in a few weeks hence, at Linlithgow, 
iu the chrouicles of your memory, by 

"RoBEUx Burns." 



Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate (71), of -which th><j 
gentleman has favoured us with the follow uig 
account : — 

" Burns and I left Edinburgh together "n 
August, 1787. We rode by Linglithgow 
and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron 
works at Carron, with which the poet was 
forcibly struck. The leaemblance between 
that place and its inhabitants, to the cave o( 
the Cyclops, which must have occurred to 
every classical reader, presented itself to 
Buriia. At Stirhng the prospects from the 
castle strongly interested liiui ; iu a former 
visit to which, his national feelings had been 
powerfidly e\cited by the ruinous and Toofi sa 
state of the hall in which the Scott:sh par- 
liaments had frequently been held. His 
indignation had vented itself in some impru- 
dent, butnotunpoetical lines, which had given 
much offence, and which he took this opportu- 
nity of erasing, by breaking the pane of the 
window at the inn on which they were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among wliom was 
a character in many respects congenial wiih 
that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of t'l • 
teachers of the High Grammar School a 
Edinburgh — the same wit and power of 
conversation, the same fondness for convivial 
society, and thoughtlessness of to-morro.v, 
characterised both. Jacobitical principles iu 
politics were common to both of them ; 
and these have been suspected, since the 
revolution of France, to have given place 
in each to opinions apparently opposite. (72) 
I regret that I have preserved no ?neM- 
orabdia of their conversation, either on 
tins or on other occasions, when I happened 
to meet them together. Many songs were 
sung; which I mention for the sake of ob- 
serving, that when Burns was called on in 
his turn, he was accustomed, instead of 
singing, to recite one or other of his own 
shorter poems, with a tone ind empnasia 
which, though not correct or harmonious, 
were impressive and pathetic. This he did 
on the present occasion. 

"From Stirhng we went iiext morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of 
Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
then inhabited by Mrs. llaiuiitoii (73), with 
the younger part of whose family Burns had 
been previously acquainted. De introduced 



From this journey Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 

month of July, renewing his friendships, and | me to the family, and there was formed my 
extending his acquaintance throughout the j first acquaintance with Mrs, Ilamdton'i 
country, where he was now very generally i eldest daughter, to whom I have been 
known and admired. In August he again I married for nine years. Thus was I in. 
risittd I'^diuburgh, whence he undertook I debrcd to Burns for a connection from 
another journey towards the middle of this I which I ha\e derived, and expect tiirther t« 
Btouth, in company with Mr. M. Adair, now ' derive, much happiness. 

6 



llllll!l!'lll!l!lliIlllllllll!llllUII!llll!l"lllllllin 







iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiJiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiii!: 




ii 



LIFE or BURNS. 



" During' a resirleiroe of about ten days at 
Harviestoii, we made excnrsious to visit 
rarions parts of the surrounding scenery, 
inferior to none in Scotland in beauty, 
sublimity, and romantic interest: parr 
ticularly Castle Campbell, the ancient seat 
of the family of Argyle ; and the famous 
cataract of the Pevoii, called the Caldron 
linn ; and the Eumbling Bridge, & single 
broad arch, thrown by the devil, if tradition 
is to be believed, across the river, at about 
tte height of a hundred feet above its bed. 
I en surprised that none of these scenes 
fhould ha\e called forth an exertion of 
Burns'3 muse. But I doubt if he had much 
taste for the picturesque. I well remember, 
that the ladies at Ilarvieston, who accom- 
panied us on this jaunt, expressed their 
disappointment at his not expressing, in 
more glowing and fervid language, his im- 
pressions of the Caldron Linn scene, cer- 
tainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

"A visit to Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, 
a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of 
that race which gave the Scottish throne its 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings 
more powerfidly. This venerable darae, with 
characteristical dignity, informed me, on my 
observing that I bdieved she was descended 
from the family of Robert Bruce, that 
Robert Bruce was sprung from her family, 
Though almost deprived of speech by a 
paralytic aiTection, she preserved her hospi- 
tality and urbanity. Slie was in possession 
of the hero's helmet and two-handed sword, 
with which she conferred on Burns and 
aiyself the honour of knighthood, remarking, 
that she had a better right to confer that 
title than some people. * * You 
will, of course, conclude, that the old lady's 
political tenets were as Jacobitical as the 
poet's, a conformity which contributed not a 
little to the cordiality of our reception and 
entertainment. She gave, as her first toast 
after dinner. Area' Uncos, or Away with the 
Strangers. Who these strangers were, you 
wiU readily understand. Mrs. A.- corrects 
me by saying it should be Jlooi, or Hooi 
Uncos, a sound used by shepherds to direct 
their dogs to drive away the sheep. (74) 

"We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Lochleven) and Queensferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing 
of poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive 
at Kinross, or had died there a short while 
before. A meeting between the bards, or a 
visit to the deserted cottage and early grave 
of j)oor Bruce, would have been lipghly 
interesting. (75) 

" At Diuifermline we visited the ruined 



abbey, and the abbey-church, now coa 
serrated to Presbyterian worship. Hirs I 
mounted the cully stool, or stool of re- 
pentance, assuming the character of a 
penitent for fornication ; while Burns, fr(.m 
the pulpit, addressed to me a luuicroua 
reproof and exhortation parodied from that 
wliich had been delivered to himself ia 
Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured rne^ 
once been one of seven who mounted tha 
seat of shame together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stoBea 
marked the grave of Roljcrt Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common 
veneration. He knelt and kissed the ston9 
with sacred fervour, and heartily (suus ut 
mos erat) execrated the worse than Gothic 
neglect of the first of Scottish heroes." (76) 

'i'he surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in 
his excellent letter, that the romaiitie 
scenery of the Devon should have failed 
to call forth any exertion of the poet's innse, 
is not in ita nature singular ; and the dis- 
appointment felt at his not expressing 
in more glowing language his emotions on 
the sight of the famous cataract of that 
river, is similar to what was felt by the 
friends of Burns on other occasions of the 
same nature. Yet the inference that Dr. 
Adair seems inclined to draw from it, tliat 
he had little taste for the picturesque might 
be questioned, even if it stood uncon- 
troverted by other evidence. The muse of 
Burns was in a high degree capricious ; she 
came uncalled, and often refused to attend 
at his bidding. Of all the numerous sub- 
jects suggested to him by his friends and 
correspondents, there is scarcely one that he 
adopted. The very expectation .that a par- 
ticular occasion would excite the energies 
of fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed 
in him, as in other poets, destructive of the 
effect expected. Hence perhaps may be 
explained, why the banks of the Devon and 
of the Tweed form no part of the subjecta 
of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
explain the want of emotion with which he 
viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly there 
are no affections of the mind more deadened 
by the influence of previous expectation, 
than those arising from the sight of natural 
objects, and more especially of objects of 
grandeur. Minute descriptions of scenes, 
of a sublime nature, should never be given 
to those who are about to view them, par 
ticularly if they are persons of great strength 
and sensibility of imagination. Language 
seldom or never conveys an adequate idea of 
such objects, but in the mi?'d of a great poe? 




^^ms-c-^^ 



LINES ON THE DEVON. 



4» 



It may excite a picture f.hat far transcends 
them Tlie im?j:ination of Burns might 
form a cataract, in comparison with which 
the Caldron Linn shouhl seem the purling 
of a rill, and even the mighty falls of Niagara 
a humble cascade. (77) 

AVhether these suggestions may assist in 
Cxplahiing our bard's del-ciency of impres- 
sion on the occasion referred to, or whether 
it ought rather to be imputed to some 
pre-occupation, or indisposition of mind, we 
presume not to decide : bat that he w^as in 
general feelingly alive to the beautiful or 
iublirae in scenery, may be supported by 
irresistible evidence. It is true this pleasure 
was greatly heightened in his mind, as might 
he expected, when combined with mural 
emotions of a kind with which it happily 
unites. That under this association Burns 
contemplated the scenery of the Devon with 
the eye of a genuine poet, the following lines 
written at this very period may bear 
witness : — • 

•* ON A YOUNG LADY, (7 8) RESTDINa ON THE 
BANKS OP THE SMALL RIVER DEVON, IN 
CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE INFANT 
YEAR.S WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

D^'von, [blooming- fair ; 

With Kveen-spreading bushes, and flowers 

But the bonniest flower on the Banks of the 

Devon [Ayr. 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushinj? 

flower [dew ! 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the 

Aiid gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to 

renew. 

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the 
dawn ! 
An d far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows." 

The different journies already mentioned 
^id not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. 
About the beginning of September, he again 
let out from Edinburgh on a more extended 
tour to the highlands, in company with 
Mr. Nicol, with whom he had now con- 
tracted a particidar intimacy, which lasted 
during the remainder of his Hfe. Mr. Nicol 
«a? of Dumfries-shire, of a descent equally 
humble with our poet. Like him he rose 
by the strength of his talents. 



the strength of his passions. He died in the 
summer of 1797. Having received the 
elements of a classical instruction at his 
parish-school, Mr. Nicol made a very rapid 
and singular proficiency; and by early 
undertaking the office of an instructor him. 
self, he acquired the means of entering him" 
self at the University of Edinburgh. Ther« 
he was first a student of theology, then a 
student of medicine, and was afterward! 
employed in the assistance and instruction 
of graduates in medicine, in those parts of 
their exercises in which the Latin language 
is employed. In this situation he was tlie 
contemporary and rival uf the celebrated 
Dr. Brown, whom he resembled in the 
particulars of his liistory, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The 
office of assistant-teacher in the High School 
being vacant, it was as usual filled up by 
competition ; and in the face of some pre- 
judices, and perhaps of some well-foiuided 
I objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, 
carried it from all the other candidates. 
This office he filled at the period of which 
we speak. 

It is to be lamented, that an acquaintance 
with the writers of Greece and Rome docs 
not always supply an original want of taste 
and correctness in manners and conduct; 
and where it fails of this etfect, it sometimes 
inflames the native pride of temper, which 
treats with disdain those delicacies in which 
it has not learnt to excel. It was thus with 
the fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed by 
nature in a model of great strength, neither 
his person nor his manners had any tincture 
of taste or elegance ; and liis coarseness was 
not compensated by that romantic sensi- 
bihty, and those towering flights of imagi- 
I nation, which distinguished the conversation 
I of Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all 
I the deficiencies of his manners were ab- 
sorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a 
post-chaise, which they engaged for the 
journey, and passing through the heart of 
the Highlands, stretched northwards, about 
ten miles beyond Inverness. There they 
bent their course eastward, across the island, 
and returned by the shore of the German 
sea to Edinburgh. In the course of this 
tour, some particulars of which will be found 
in a letter of our bard, they visited a number 
of remarkable scenes, and the imagination of 
Burns was constantly excited by the wild 
and sublime scenery through which he 
passed. Of this several proofs may be found 
in the poems formerly nrinted. (79) Of the 
history of one of these poems, the Humble 



60 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



Petition of Briiar Water, aud of the bard's 
visit to Atliole-lioiise, some particulars will 
be found in his correspondence ; and by the 
favour of Mr. Walker, of Perth, then residing 
in the family of the Duke of Athole, we 
we enabled to give the following additional 
account : — 

" Oil reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
bis arrival (as I had been previously ac- 
quainted with him), and I hastened to meet 
kim at the inn. The Duke, to whom he 
brought a letter of introduction, was from 
homi ; but the Duchess, being informed of 
his arrival, ga\e him an invitation to sup 
and sleep at Athole-house. He accepted 
the invitation ; but as the hour of supper 
was at some distance, begged I would in the 
interval be his guide through the grounds. 
It was already growing dark ; yet the 
softened though fai''t and uncertain view of 
their beauties, \vh'>za the moonlight afforded 
us, seemed "^'^tij suited to the state of his 
feelinc:- u the time. I had often, like 
wtrcrs, experienced the pleasures wliich arise 
6-oni the sublime or elegant landscape, but 

I never saw those feelings so intense as in 
Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on 
the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a 
woody precipice, from which there is a noble 
waterfall, he threw himself on the heathy 
seat, and gave himself up to a tender, 
abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of 
imagination. I cannot help thinking it 
might have been here that he conceived the 
idea of the following lines, which he after- 
wards introduced into his poem on Bruar 
U'ater, when oidy fancying such a combina- 
tion of objects es were now present to his 
e/e. 

'Or by the reaper's niijhtlj' beam, 
Mild, chi.'quering through the trees, 

Save to mv durkly-diishing- >tretuu, 
Hoarse-swelling^ on the breeze.' 

II was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
him to quit this spot, and to be introduced 
ic proper time to supper. 

'■ My ciu'iosity was great to see how he 
woidd conduct himself in company so 
ditt'ereut from what he had been accustomed 
to. (80) His manner was unembarrassed, 
plain, and firm. He apjieared to have com- 
plete reliance on his own native good sense 
for directing his behaviour. He seemed at 
once to perceive and to appreciate what was 
due to the company and to himself and 
uever to forget a proper respect for the 
teparate species of dignity belonging to 
each. He did not arrogate con.versation, 
but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
propriety, and luauhuess. Ue tried to exert 



his abilities, because he knew it was ability 
alone gave him a ntle to be there. Tue 
Duke's fine yomig family attracted much of 
his admiration ; he drank their healths as 
honest men and bonnie lasses, an idea which 
was much applauded by the company, and 
with which he has very felicitously closed 
liis poem. (81) 

" Ne.\t day I took a ride with him 
through some of the mosc romantic pare of 
that neighbourhood, and was highly grati- 
fied by his conversation. As a specimen ot 
his happiness of conception and strength of 
expression, I mil mention a remark which 
he made on his fellow-traveller, who was 
walking at the time a few paces before us. 
He was a man of a rf.bust but clumsy 
person ; and while Burns was expressing to 
me the vidue he entertaaied for him, on 
account of his ngorous talents, although 
they were clouded at times by coarseness of 
manners ; ' in short,' he a'lded, ' his mind i* 
like his body — he has a confounded strong 
in-knee'd sort of a soid.' 

" Much attention was pdid to Burns both 
before aud after the Duke's return, of which 
he was perfectly seusibif:, vithfut being 
vain ; and at his departure I recommended 
to him, as the most appropriate return he 
could make, to WTite some descriptive verses 
on any of the scenes with which he had 
been so much delighted. After leaving 
Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited tlie 
Falls of Bruar, and in a few days I recened 
a letter from Inverness, with the verses 
enclosed." (S2J 

It appears that the impression made by 
our poet on the noble faiuuy of Athole, was 
in a high degree favourable; it is certain lie 
was charmed with the reception he received 
from them, and he often mentioned the t»vo 
days he spent at Athole-house as among 
the happiest of his life. He was warmly 
invited to prolong his stay, but sacrificed 
his inclinations to his rngageinent with 
]\lr. Nicol ; which is the mure to be re- 
gretted, as he would otherwise have bceii 
introduced to Mr. Duudas (8.3) (then dady 
expected on a visit to the Duke;, a circum- 
stance that might have had a favourable 
influence on Burns's futjre fortunes. At 
Athole-house he met, for the first time, 
jMr. Graham of Fintry, to whom he was 
afterwards indebted for his ortice in tho 
Excise. 

The letters and poems w hich he addressed 
to Jir. Graham, bear testimony of his sen- 
sibility, and justify the supposition, that he 
would not have been deficient in gratitude 
had he been ( le^ ated to a aitvatii m betiei 



BUEXS LEAVES GORDON CASTLE. 



61 



sriited to his disposition and to his 
talent:? . 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Foc'liabers. In the course of the preceding 
winter Burns had been introduced to the 
Puciiess of Gordon at Edniburgh, and pre- 
suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded 
to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the 
inn in the village. At the castle our poet 
was received with the utmost hospitality 
and kindness, and the family being about to 
sit down to dinner, he was mvited to take 
his place at table as a matter of course. 
This invitation he acaepted, and after drink- 
uig a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and 
proposed to withdraw. On being pressed 
to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his 
engagement with his fellow-traveller; aad ! 
his noble host olTering to send a servant to j 
conduct JMr. Nicol to the castle. Burns in- , 
sisted on undertaking that otiice himself. 
He was, however, accompanied by a gentle- 
man, a particular acquaintance of the duke, 
by whom the invitation was deli\ered in all 
the forms of politeness. The in\ itation 
came too late; the pride of Kicol was 
inflamed into a high degree of passion, by 
the neglect which he had already sufl'ered. 
lie had ordered the horses to be put to the 
carriage, being determined to proceed on 
his journey alone ; and they found him 
parading the streets of Fochabers, before 
the door of the inn, venting his anger on 
the postilion, for the slowness with which 
he obeyed his commands. As no explana- 
tion nor entreaty could change the purpose 
of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced 
to the necessity of separating from him 
entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him 
on their joiu-ney. He chose the last of 
these alternatives ; and seating himself 
beside Nicol in the post-chaise, with morti- 
fication and regret, he turned his back on 
Gordon Castle, where he had promised him- 
Mlf some happy days. Sensible, however, 
of the great kindness of the noble family, 
he made the best return in his power, by 
the following poem : — (8 ■) 

" Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden ^alKls, 
There comnnx'd with foulest stains 

Fi'oni tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
1 leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
tii^e mc the stream th>it sweetly lavea 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 
Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shadjiig from the burning ray 



Helpless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaushter, blood, and spoilt 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the "groves that lolty brava 
The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here, -without control, 
Niiture reigns and rules the whole J 

In that sober pensive mood 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She ]jlants the forest, lOurs the flood | 
Lite's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And fiad i't nicht a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle-Gordon." (8J) 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
gTeater part of the winter, l/a/-8, (86) and 
again entered into the society and dissijia- 
tion of that metropolis. i,87) It appears 
that on the 31st Ltecember he attended a 
meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the 
lineal descendant of the Scottish race o£ 
kings, the late unfortunate Prince Charles 
Edward. Whatever might have been the 
wish or purpose of the original institutors 
of this annual meeting, there is no reason 
to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it 
was at this time composed, were not per- 
fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It 
is not to be conceived that they entertained 
any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of 
the House of Stuart ; but, over their sparks 
hng wine, they indulged the generous feel- 
ings which the recollection of fallen greatness 
is calculated to inspire, and commemorated 
the heroic valour which strove to sustain it 
in vain — valour worthy of a nobler cause, 
and a happier fortune. On this occasion 
our bard took upon himself the ortice of a 
poet-laureate, and produced an ode, whieli, 
though deficient in the complicated rhythm 
and polished versilication that such com- 
positions require, might on a fair competi- 
tion, where energy of feeUngs and of 
expression were alone ui question, have won 
the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate 
of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as ■ 
specimen : — 

* * • • 

"False flatterer, Ilope, away! 
Nor thiiik to lure us a> in ilays of yore : 

We solemnise tliis sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more; 

And, owning heaven s niy&tcrious sway, 
Subndssive low, adore. 

Ye honoured mighty dead ! 
■ftlio nobly jteri^hed in the glorious cause. 
Your king, jour country, and he!' lav.s I 

From great Dundee, who smiUug victor; 
led. 







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E2 



LITE OF BURNS. 



AniJ foil a ninrtyr in fcer arms, | 

(AVhat brrast of northern ice but warms?) 

T'>bold Bulifieiino's undyinsr name, [flam?, 

V^licse soul of fire, Ijprhled at heaven's hii;li 

Deserves tht; proudest wreath departed heroes 

claim. (88) 

Nor unrrTentr'd your fate shall be. 

It onlj lags the fata! hour : 
Your blood shall ^rith incessant cry 

Awake at last tli' uusparini;- power. 
As flora the cliff, with tliundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes aloiitr, 
Witli doubling- speed and tcatherins: force, 
Till deep it crashini? whelms the cottai."; in 
So vengeance " • • • [the vale ! 

In relating the incidents of otir poet's 
life in Edinburgh, we ought to have men- 
tionec' the seutiuients of respect and sympa- 
thy with which he traced out the grave of 
his predecessor Fergusson, over whose 
ashes, in the Canongate churchyard, he ob- 
tained leave to erect a humble monument, 
which will be viewed by reflecting minds 
with no common interest, and wliicli will 
awake in the bosom of kindred genius many 
a high emotion. Neither slmuld we pass 
over the continued friendship he experienced 
from a poet then living, the amiable and 
Bccomplislied Blacklock. To his encourag- 
ing advice it was owing (as lias already 
appeared) that Burns, instead of emigrating 
to the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. 
He received him there witli all the ardour 
of atl'ectionate aihniration — he eagerly in- 
troduced him to the respectable circle of his 
friends — he consulted his interest — he bla- 
zoned his fame — he lavished upon him all 
the kindness of a generous and feeling 
heart, into which nothing selfish or envious 
ever found admittance. Among the friends 
to whom he introduced Burns, was Mr. 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre (89), to whom our poet 
paid a visit in the autumn of 1787 [October], 
at his delightful retirement in the neigh- 
bourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of 
the Teith. Of this visit we have tlie follow- 
ing particulars : — 

" 1 have been in the company of many 
men of genius'' says Mr. Ramsay, "some of 
them poets ; but never witnessed such 
flashes of intellectual brightness as from 
him, the impulse of the moment, sparks of 
celestial tire ! I never was more delighted, 
therefore, than with his company for two 
days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I 
should have made little of liim ; for, in the 
gamester's phr^e, he did not always know 
when to play off and when to play on. 
* * * I not only proposed to him the 
writing of a play similar to the Gentle 
Bhepherd, qualem decet eue sororem, but 



Scottish Georgics, a subject whicn Thomro* 
has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. 
What beautiful landscapes of rural life and 
manners might not have been expected from 
a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, 
which could have exhibited scenes as fami- 
liar and interesting as those in the Gentle 
Slie)iherd, which every one who knows oua 
swains in their unadulterated state, in- 
stantly recognises as true to nature. But 
to have executed either of these plans, 
steadiness and abstraction from company 
were wanting, not talents. M'hen 1 asked 
him whether the Edinburgh literati had 
mended liis poems by their criticisms. ' Sir,' 
said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of 
some spinsters in my country, who spin 
their thread so fine that it is neither fit for 
weft nor woof.' He said he had not changed 
a word except one, to please Dr. Blair." (90) 

Having settled with his publisher, Mt. 
Creech, in February 1788, Burns found him- 
self master of nearly five hundred poundi, 
after discharging all his expenses. Two 
hundred pounds he immediately advanced 
to his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon 
himself the support of their aged mother, 
and was struggling with many ditliculties in 
the farm of Mossgiel. "With the remainder 
of this sum, and some farther eventual pro- 
fits from his poems, he determined on settling 
himself for life in the occupation of agricul- 
ture, and took from Mr. Miller of Dalswiu- 
ton (91), the farm of EUisland, on the banks 
of the river Nith, six miles above Humfries, 
on which he entered at Whitsunday, 1788. 
Having been previously recommended to 
the Board of Excise, his name had been 
put on the list of candidates for the humble 
! office of a gauger or exciseman (92) ; and 
! he immediately applied to acquiring the in- 
I formation necessary for filling that otKce, 
I when the honourable board might judge it 
I proper to employ him. He expected to be 
called into service in the district in which 
I his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to 
' unite with success the labours of the farmer 
i with the duties of the exciseman. 
I When Burns had in this manner arranged 
his plans for futurity, his generous heart 
turned to the objeci of his most ardent 
: attachment, and, listening lo no considera- 
! tions but those of honour and atTection, he 
i joined with her in a public declaration ol 
marriage, thus legalising their union, and 
rendering it permanent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, 
a specimen of his poetry had recommeinled 
him to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Under- 
standing that he intended to le.'ume the 







AVOWED IMARMAGE OF BURNS. 



83 



life of a farmer, Mr. ^liller liad invited him, 
in tlie spring of 1787, to view his estate in 
Kiihsdule, otferiiif): hiui at tlie same time the 
ch(jicc of any of liis farms out of lease, at 
«uch a rent as Burns and liis friends might 
judge proper. It was not in tlie nature of 
Burns to take an undue advantage of tlie 
liberality of Mr. Miller. He proceeded in 
tills business, however, with more than 
usual deliberation. Having made choice of 
the farm of EUisland, he employed two of 
his friends skilled in the value of land, to 
examine it, and, with their approbation, 
ofi'i' m1 a rent to INIr. Miller, which was im- 
nieaia:ely accepted. (9o) It was not conve- 
nient for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately 
fr im Ayrshire, and our poet therefore took 
up his residence alone at Elli<land, to pre- 
pare for the reception of his wife and chil- 
dren, who joined hiui towards the end of the 
year. 

[Dr. Currie omits all allusion to the cir- 
cumstances whicli led to a permanent- uni(jn 
between Burns and his Jean. That the 
mind of the poet, notwithstanding all past 
irritation, and various entanglements with 
other beauties, was never altogether alienated 
from her, is evident; but up to June 1787, 
when he first returned from Edinburgh to 
Waucliline, he certainly did not entertain 
aisy self avowed notion of ever again renew- 
ing his acquaintance with her. It was in 
this state of his feelings, that, one day, 
Boon after his return from Edinburgh, when 
meeting some friends over a glass at John 
Dow's tavern, close to the residence of his 
0"ce fondly loved mistress, he chanced to 
encounter her in the court behind tiie inn, 
and was iinmechately inflamed witti all his 
former affection. Their correspondence was 
renewed — was attended with its former re- 
sults — and, towards the end of the year, 
when the poet was fixed helplessly in Edin- 
burgh by a bruised limb, her shame becom- 
hig apparent to her {"uireuts, she was turned 
out of doors, and would ha\'e been utterly 
destitute, if she had not obtained shelter 
from a relation in the village of Ardrossan. 
Jean was once more delivered of twins — 
girls — on the 3rd of March, 1788 : the 
infants died a few days after their birth. 
In a letter of that date to Mr R. Ainslie, 
written frvm jManchhne, Burns says — "I 
found Jean banished, forlorn, destitute, and 
friendless : 1 have reconciled her to her 
fate, and I have reconciled her to her 
mother." Soon after, he seems to ha\e 
formed the resolution of overlookuig all dis- 
honouring circumstances, in her past his- 
tory, aud laakiug her really his owu for life. 



On the 7th of April, we find him Aritmg to 
Miss Chalmers, evidently with allusion to 
this resolution : — " I have lately made some 
sacrifices, for which, were I viva voce with 
you to paint the situation and recount the 
circumstances, you would apjilaud me." 
And then, on the 28th, in a letter to Smith, 
we see the resolution has been virtually 
acted upon. "To let you a little into the 
secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
must know, a certain clean-limbed, haiid- 
S(mie, bewitching young hussy of your ao. 
quaintance, to whom I have lately given s 
matrimonial title to my corpus. * * I 
intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed 
shawl, an article of which I dare say yoa 
have variety : 'tis my first present to her 
since I irrevocably called her mine. * • 
Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designa- 
tion) presents her best compliments to you." 
lie tells Ainslie, May 26, that the title is 
now avowed to the world — a sufficient legal 
proof of marriage in Scotland. Ultimately, 
on the 3rd of August, as we learn from the 
s-e«ion books, the poet and Jean were 
openly married ; when Burns, being in- 
formed that it was customary for the bride- 
groom, in such cases, to bestow something 
on the poor of the parish, gave a guinea for 
that purpose. The ceremony took place in 
Dow's tavern, unsanctioned by the lady's 
father, who never, to the day of the poet's 
death, would treat him as a friend; even 
Gavin Hamilton, from respect for the feel- 
ings of Armour, declined being present. It 
was not till the ensuing winter that Mrs. 
Burns joined her husband at EUisland — 
their only child Robert following her in the 
sub.soquent spring.] 

The situation in which Burns now found 
himself was calcidated to awaken refiection. 
The different steps he had of late taken 
were in their natui'e highly important, and 
might be said to have, in some measure, 
fixed his destiny. He had become a husband 
and a father ; he had engaged in the manage- 
ment of a considerable farm, a difficult and la- 
borious undertaking; iu his success the happi- 
ness of his family was involved. It \vas 
time, therefore, to abandon the gaiety and 
dissipation of which he had been too much 
enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the past, 
and to form virtuous resolutions respecting 
the future. That such was actually the 
state of his mind, the followi^ig extract from 
his common-place book may bear witness :— 

"EUisland, Sundriy, \4th June, 1788. 
"This is now the third day that I hav« 
been in this country. ' Lord, what is ma ! 




j-OJ 



;4g|^ 




64 



LIFE OF BUKNS. 



WTiat a Dnstliii^ little bundle of passions, 
aiipetites, ideas, ai\d fancies 1 And what a 
capricious kind of existence lie has here! * * 
There is indeed an elsewliere, where, as 
Thomson says, virtue sole surc'wes. 

' Tell us, ye dead ; 
Will none of yoxi in pity disclose the secret. 
What 'tis you are, andVe must shortly be ; 

A little time 

W^ill make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of 
the service, that I would almost at any time, 
with Milton's Adam, 'gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace.' But a wife 
and children bir d me to struggle with the 
stream, till some sudden squall shall overset 
the silly vessel, or, in the listless return of 
years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. 
Farewell now to those giddy follies, those 
varnished vices, which, though half sancti- 
fied by the bewitching levity of wit and 
humour, are at best but thriftless idling w ith 
the precious current of existence ; nay, often 
poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of 
Jericho, tlip wafer is nautjhl and the ijiouiul 
barren, and nothing short of asupernaturally 
gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion 
■were to be any rhing with me but names, 
was what in a few seasons I must have 
resolved on ; in my present situation it was 
absolutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, 
honest pride of character, justice to my own 
happiness for after life, so far as it could de- 
pend (which it surely wiU a great deal) on 
internal peace ; all these joined their warmest 
sutl'rages, their most powerful solicitations, 
■with a rooted attachment, to urge the step 
I have taken. Nor have I any reason on her 
part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have 
never seen where, I could ha\ e made a better 
choice. Come then, let me act up to my 
favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young — 

' On reason bnild resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man!'" 

Under the impulse of these reflections. 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding 
the dwehing-house on his farm, which, in 
the state he found it, was inadequate to the 
accommodation of his family. On this occa- 
B\on he himself resumed at times the occupa- 
tion of a labourer, and found neither his 
strength nor his skill impaired. Pleased with 
surveying the grounds he was about to cul- 
tivate, and witli the rearing of a building that 
should give shelter to his wife and children, 
ind, as he fondly hoped, to his own grey 
\bairs, sentiments of mdepeudeuce buoyed up 



his mind pictures of domestic content and 
peace rose on his imagination ; and a few 
days passed away, as he himself informs us, 
the most tranquil, if not the happiest, vvluch 
he had ever experienced. (9-i.) 

It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without the 
society of his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; hia 
old habits were broken, and the new circum- 
stances in which he was placed were calcu- 
lated to give a new direction to his thoi^jhts 
and conduct. But his application to the 
cares and labours of his farm was uiterrupteil 
by several visits to his family in Ayrshire; 
and as the distance was too great for a single 
day's journey, he generally spent a night at 
an inn on the road. On such occasions he 
sometimes fell into company, and forgot the 
resolutions he had formed. In a little whil^ 
temptation assailed him nearer home. 

Ilis fame naturally drew upon him the 
attention of his neighbours, and he soou 
formed a general acquaintance in the district 
ill w hich he Uved. I'he public voice had now 
pronounced on the subject of his talents ; 
the reception he had met with in Edinburgh 
had given him the currency which fashion 
bestows ; he had surmoimted the prejudices 
arising from his humble birth, and he was 
received at the table of the gentlemen of 
Nithsdale with welcome, with kindness, and 
even with respect. Their social parties too 
often seduced him from his rustic labours 
and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady 
fabric of his resolutions, and inflamed those 
propensities which temperance might have 
w^eakened, and prudence ultimately sup. 
pressed. (93) It was not long, therefore, 
before Burns began to vie\* his farm with 
dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately, he had for several years 
looked to an othce in the Excise as a certain 
means of livelihood, shoidd his other expecta- 
tions fail. As has already been mentioned, 
he had been recommended to the Board of 
Excise, and had received the instruction 
necessary for such a situation, lie now 
applied to be employed ; and by the interest 
of Mr. Graham of Fintry, was appointed 
exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly calleil, gauger, 
of the district in which he lived. (96.) His 
farm was after this in a great measure 
a!)andoned to servants, while he betook him- 
self to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the 
spring directing his plough, a labour in 
w Inch he excelled ; or with 8 white sheet, 
containing liis seed-corn, slung across his 
shoulders, striding with meusiued stepa 








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BURNS IN THE EXCISE. 



ftloiisr hiu TOrned-T>p furro (Ts, and scattering 
the grain in the earth. But his farm no 
longer occupied tlie principal part of his 
care or his thoughts. (97) It was not at 
tllisland that he was now in general to be 
found. Aloimted ou horseback, this high- 
mnided poet was pursuing the defaulters of 
the revenue among the hills and vales of 
Kithsdale, his roving eye wandering over 
the charms of nature, and muttering his 
Wayward fancies as lie moved along. 

"I had an adventure with Inm in the 
year 1790," says ^Ir. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
in a letter to the editor, "when passing 
through Dumfries-shire, on a tour to the 
south, with Dr. Stewart of Luss. Seeing 
him pass quickly, near Closebum, I said to 
my companion, ' that is Burns.' On coming 
to the nm, the hostler told us he would be 
back in a few hours to grant permits ; that 
wl'ere he met with anything seizable he was 
no better than any other ganger ; in every- 
thing else, tliat he was perfectly a t^entle- 
man. After leaving a note to be delivered 
to him on his return, I proceeded to his 
house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I 
Mas much pleased with his uxor tiuhina 
qiialis, and the poet's modest mansion, so 
unlike the habitation of ordmary rustics. 
In the evening he suddenly bounced in 
upon us, and said, as he entered, ' I come, 
to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed in 
Jiasle.' In fact, he had nddeu incredibly 
fast after receiving my note We fell into 
conversation directly, and soon got into the 
mare mafjuum of poetry. He told me that 
he had now gotten a story for a drama, 
which he was to call Rob Maequcchau'* 
Elshon, from a popular story of Robert 
Bruce being defeated on the water of Caerii, 
when the heel of his boot having loosened 
iu his flight, he applied to Robert Mac- 
quechan to fit it ; who, to make sure, ran 
his av.l niue inches up the king's heel. We 
were now going on at a great rate, when 

]Mr. S popped in his head ; which put 

a stop to our (hscourse, which had become 
very interesting. Yet in a little while it 
was resumed ; and such was the force and 
versatility of the bard's genius, that he 
made the tears run down Mr. S — — 's 
cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. 
• * * Froia that time we met no more, 
and I was grieved at the reports of him 
Hfterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly 
e\er see his like again. He was, in truth, a 
sort of comet in hterature, irregular in its 
motions, wliich did not do good propor- 
tioned to the blaze of Lght it displayed." 

Ill the suuiiuer of 1791, two English 



gentlemen, who had before met with him lU 
Edniburgh, paid a visit to him at Ellislai.il. 
On calling at the house, they were informed 
that he had walked out on the baiiL i of the 
river ; and dismounting from their horses, 
they proceeded in search of him. On a 
rock that projected into the stream, they 
saw a man employed in angling, of a 
singular appearance. He had a ca{, mado 
of a fox's skin on his head, a loose great- 
coat fixed round him by a belt, ft-om which 
depended an enormous Highland broad- 
sword. It was Burns. He received t'lem 
with great cordiality, and asked theit. to 
share his humble dinner— an invitation 
which they accepted. On the table they 
found boiled beef, with vegetables, aiiJ 
barley-broth, after the manner of Scotland, 
of which they partook heartily. After 
dinner, the bard told them ingenuously 
that he had no wine to oifer them, nothing 
better than Highland whisky, a bottle of 
which Mrs. Bmns set on the board. He 
produced at the same time his punch-bowl 
made of Inverary marble ; and, mixing tiie 
spirit with water and sugar, filled their 
glasses, and mvited them to drink. (98) The 
travellers were in haste, and, besides, the 
flavour of the whisky to their suthron 
palates was scarcely tolerable; but the 
generous poet offered them liis best, and 
his ardent hospitahty they found it impos- 
sible to resist. Burns was iu his happiest 
mood, and the charms of his conversation 
were altogether fascinating. He ranged 
over a great variety of topies, illuminating 
whatever he touched. He related the tales 
of his infancy and of his youth ; he recited 
some of the gayest and some of the teu- 
derest of his poems; iu the wildest of hia 
strains of mirth, he threw in some touches 
of melancholy, and spread around him the 
electric emotions of his powerful mind. 
The Highland whisky improved in its 
flavour ; the marble bowl was again and 
again emptied and replenished ; the guests 
of our poet forgot the flight of time, and 
the dictates of prudence : at the hour oi 
midnight they lost their way in retunnug 
to Dumfries, and coidd scarcely distinguish 
it when assisted by the morning's dawn. 

Besides his duties iu the excise, and hia 
social pleasures, other cu-cumstances inter- 
fered with the attention of Burns to hia 
farm. He engaged in the formation of a 
society for purchasing and circulating books 
among the farmers of his neighbourhood, of 
whiclr he undertook the management ; and 
he occupied himself occasionally in fom- 
posiug sougs for the musicid worY oS Me 



66 



IIFE OF BCTRNS. 



Johnson, then hi the conrse of piiblication. 
Tliese ciigiigements, useful and honourable 
in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the 
nbstraction of his thoughts from the busi- 
ness of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
NotwithstaucUng the uniform prudence and 
eood management of Mrs, Burns, and 
though his rent was moderate and reason- 
able, our Y>oet found it convenient, if not 
necessary, to resign his farm to Mr. Miller, 
after having occupied it three years and a 
half. Ilia office in the excise had originally 
produced about fifty pounds per annum. 
Having tcquitted himself to the satisfaction 
of the board, he had been appointed to a 
new district, the emoluments of which rose 
to about seventy pounds per annum. 
Hoping to support himself and his family 
on this liumljle income till promotion should 
reach him, he disposed of his stock and of 
his crop on Ellislaud by public auction, and 
removed to a small house which he had 
taken in Dumfries, about the end of the 
ye.ir 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess 
in social parties, had abstained from the 
habitual use of strong liquors, and his con- 
stitution had not suffered any permanent 
injury from the irregularities of his conduct. 
In Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so 
easily beset him continually presented tlicni- 
Belves; and his irregularities grew by 
degrees into habits These temptations 
unliapjiily occurred during his engagements 
in tile business of his office, as well as 
during his hours of relaxation ; and though 
he clearly foresaw the consequences of 
yielding to them, his appetites and sensa- 
tions, which could not prevent the dictates 
of his judgment, tinally triumphed over the 
powers of his will. Yet this victory was 
not obtained without many obstinate strug- 
gles, and at times temperance and virtue 
seemed to have obtained the mastery. Be- 
sides his engagements in the excise, and the 
society into which they led, many circum- 
stances contributed to the melancholy fate 
of Burns. His great celebrity made hiin 
dm object of interest and curiosity to 
strangers, and few persons of cidtivated 
minds passed through Dumfries without 
attempting to aee oiu: poet, and to enjoy 
the pleasure of his conversation. As he 
could not receive them under his own 
humble roof, these interviews passed at the 
inns of the town, and often terminated in 
those excesses, which Burns sometimes pro- 
voked, and was seldom ab'e to resist. And 
uuoug the inhubiiuuts of Duufiies and its 



vicinity, there wt.-.e never wanting penons 
to share his social pleasures ; to lead or 
accompany him to the tavern ; to partake 
in the wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness 
the strength and the degradation of his 
genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society 
of persons of taste and of respectabdity. 
and in their company could impose on hiiiv 
self the restraints of temperance and A\j- 
coruin. Nor was his muse dormant. In 
the four years which he lived in Dumfries, 
he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, 
though it does not appear that he attem])ted 
any poem of con3idera.ble length. During 
this time he made several excursions intp 
the neighbouring country, of one of which, 
through Galloway, an account is preserved 
in a letter of Mr. Syme, written soon after ; 
which, as it gives an animated picture of 
him by a correct and masterly hand, wo 
shall present to the reader. 

"I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to 
ride on." We dined the first day, 27th 
July, 1793, at Glendenwynes of Parton ! a 
beautiful situation on the banks of the Dee. 
In the evening wie walked out, and asccmled 
a gentle eminence, from which we bad as 
fine a view of Alpine scenery as can well be 
imagined. A delightful soft evening showed 
all Its wilder as « ell as its grander graces. 
Immediately opposite, and within a mile of 
us, we saw Airds, a charming romantic 
place, where dwelt Low, the author of Mnn/ 
iveep no more for me. (99) ThS was classical 
ground for Burns. He viewed ' the highest 
hill which rises o'er the source of Dee ; ' 
and woidd have staid till 'the pas.siiig spirit' 
had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
Keunure that night. We arrived as Mr. 
and Mrs. Gordon (100) were sitting .lown 
to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. Tho 
castle, an old building, stands on a large 
natural moat. In front, the river Keu 
winds for several miles through the most 
fertile and beautiful holm (lOi), till it ex- 
pands into a lake twelve miles long, the 
banks of which, on the south, present a tine 
and soft landscape of green knolls, natural 
wood, and here and there a grey rock. On 
the north, the aspect is great, wild, and, I 
may say, tremendous. In short, I cau 
scarcely conceive a scene more terribly ro- 
mantic than the castle of Kenmure. Burns 
thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a 
description of it in poetry. Indeed, 1 be- 
lieve he has begun the work. We spent 
three days with Mr. Gordon, \i-hose polished 
hospitality is of an original and endcaruig 



-4^^^^. 




Qd' ^-^-^ 







ST. MAET-S ISLE. 



kind Mra. Gordon's lap-dog, Echo, was 
dead. She would have an epitaph for him. 
Several had been made. Burns was asked 
for one. This was getting Hercules to his 
distaff. He disliked the subject; but, to 
please the lady, he would try. Here is 
what he produced : — 

•In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 
Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ! 

Now half your din of tuneless song 
With Echo silent lies.' 

"We left Kenmure, and went to Gate- 
house. I took him the moor-road, where 
savage and desolate regions extended wide 
around. The sky was sympathetic with the 
wretchedness of the soil ; it became lower- 
ing and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the 
liglitnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The 
poet enjoyed the awfiU scene ; he spoke not 
a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. In 
a little while the rain began to fidl ; it poured 
in Hoods upon us. For three hours did the 
wild elements rumble their belly full upon 
our defenceless heads. Oh ! oh ! twas foul. 
We got utterly wet ; and, to revenge our- 
Belves, Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our 
getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell you that Burns had got a 
pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which 
had been thoroughly wet, and which had 
been dried in such manner that it was not 
possible to get them on again. The brawny 
poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. 
A whifflmg vexation of this sort is more 
trying to the temper than a serious calamity. 
VVe were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the 
Beat of the Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn 
Burns was discomfited at the thought of his 
ruined boots. A sick stomach, and a head- 
ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse 
was quite accahle. I attempteil to reason 
v.it!i him. Mercy on us, how he did fume 
and rage! Nothing could reinstate him ni 
temper. I tried various expedients, and at 
last hit on one that succeeded. I showed 
him the house of * * * * , across tlie 
bay of Wigton. Against * * * * ^ with 
wiiora he was offended, he expectorated his 
spleen, and regained a most agreeable tem- 
per. He was in a most epigrammati,; 
humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game There is one »»«*■» 
whom he does not love. He had a passing 
blow at hioL 



'When- 



67 

-, deceased to tlie devil went 

down, [owucvortn; 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's 

Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, tb^t crown sh.ill 

wear never, [clever.' 

I grant thou'rt as wicked, b'lt not quite so 

"Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I 
carried the torn ruins across ray saddle in 
spile of his fulminations, and in contempt 
of appearances ; and what is more. Lord 
Selkirk (102) carried them in his coach to 
Dumfries. He insisted they were worth 
mending. 

"We reached Kirkcudbright about oua 
o'clock. I had promised that we shoidd 
dine with one of the first men in oui 
country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a 
wild and obstreperous humour, and swore 
he would not dine where he should be under 
the smallest restrauit. We prevailed, there- 
fore, on j\Ir. Dalzell to dine with us in the 
inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the 
evening we set out for St. Clary's Isle. 
Robert had not absolutely regained the 
milkiness of good temper, and it occurred 
once or twice to him, as he rode along, that 
St. jMary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet 
that Lord was not an aristocrat, at least in 
his sense of the word. We arrived about 
eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and 
coffee. St. Mary's Isle is one of the most 
delightful places that can, in my opinion 
be formed by the assemblage of every soft, 
but not tame object, which constitutes 
natural and cultivated beauty. But not to 
dwell on its external graces, let me tell you 
that we found all the ladies of the family 
(all beautiful) at home, and some strangers ; 
and, among others, who but Urbani ! The 
Italian sang us many Scottish songs, accom- 
panied with instrumental music. The two 
young ladies of Selkirk sang also. We had 
the song of Lord Gregory, which 1 asked 
f(jr, to have an opportunity of railing on 
Burns to recite his ballad to that tu.ae. He 
did recite it ; and such was the effect, that 
a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence 
as a mind of feeling naturally preserves 
when it is touched with that enthusiasm 
which banishes every other thought but the 
contemplation and indulgence oif the sym- 
pathy produced. Burns's Lord Gregory is, 
in my opinion, a most beautifid and affect- 
ing ballad. The fastidious critic may per- 
haps say, some of the sentiments and 
imagery are of too elevated a kind for such 
a style of composition ; for instance, ' Thou 
bolt of Heaven that passest by ; ' and, ' Yj 
mustering thunder,' &c. ; but tiiis ia a cslJ 



fiS 



LIFE OF BUEXS. 



bio Kied objection, ■whict, will be said rather 
than felt. 

" VVe enjoyed a most nappy evening at 
Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of 
the word, a feast, in which our minds and 
our senses were equally gratified. The poet 
was delighted wich his company, and ac- 
q\iitted hnnself to admiration. The lion 
that had raged so violently m the morniu'j, 
Vas now as mild and gentle as a lamb. 
Kext day >ie returned to Dumfries, and so 
ends our peregrination. I told you that, in 
the midst of the storm, on the wilds of 
Kenmure, Burns was wrapt in meditation. 
\Miat do you think he was about ? He was 
charjiing the English army, along with 
Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged 
in the same manner on our ride home 
from St. ilary's Isle, and I did not disturb 
liiin. Next day he produced me the foilow- 
iug address of Bruce to Ids troops, and 
gave me a copy for Calzell : — 

•Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,' &c. (103)" 

Burns had entertained hopes of promo- 
tion in the Excise; but circumstances oc- 
curred which retarded their fullilment, and 
v.liich, iu his own mind, destroyed all ex- 
pectation of their being ever fuliilled. The 
extraordinary events which ushered in the 
revolution of France, interested the feelings, 
and excited the ho[)es of men in every 
corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 
seemed about to disappear from among 
men, and the day-star of reason to rise 
upon a benighted world. In the dawn of 
this beautiful morning, the genius of French 
freedom appeared on our southern horizon 
with the countenance of an angel, but 
speedily assumed the features of a demon, 
»nd vanished in a shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a 
cavalier. Burns had shared in the original 
hopes entertaiueii of this astonishing 
revolution by ardent and benevolent minds. 
The novelty and the hazard of the attempt 
meditated by the First, or Constituent 
Assembly, ser\ ed rather, it is probable, to 
recommend it to his daring temper ; and the 
unfettered scope proposed to be given to 
every kind of talent, was doubtless gratify- 
ing to the ft-eliiigs of conscious but in- 
dignant genius. Burns foresaw not the 
Daighty ruin that was to be the im- 
mediate cousequeiice of an enterprise, which, 
on its commencement, promised so much 
happiness to the human race. And even 
after the career of guilt and of blood com- 
menced, he could not immediately, it may 
06 presumed, withdiaw his partial ^aze 



from a people who had so lately brealliec 
the sentiments of universal jieace and 
benignity, or obliterate in his bosom the 
pictures of hope and of happiness to which 
those sentiments had given birth. Under 
these impressions, he did not always cotv 
duct himself with the circumspection ai.d 
prudence which his dependent situaticu 
seemed to demand. He engaged, indeed, 
in no popular associations, so common at 
the time of which we speak ; but in com- 
pany he did not conceal his opinions of 
public measures, or of the reforms required 
in the practice of our government ; and 
sometimes, in his social and unguarded 
moments, he uttered them with a wild and 
unjustiliable vehemence. Information of 
this was given to the Board of Excise, with 
the exaggerations so gei;eral in such cases. 
A superior oliicer in that department was 
authorized to inquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself ia a letter ad- 
dressed to one of the board [Sir. Graham 
of Fintry], written with great independence 
of spirit, and with more than his accustomed 
eloquence. The officer appointed to inquire 
into his conduct gave a favourable re- 
port. (10-1) His steady friend, j\Ir. Graham 
of Fintry, interposed his good offices in his 
behalf; and the imprudent ganger was 
suifered to retain his situation, but given to 
understand that his promotion was deferred, 
and must depend on his future behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impres- 
sion on the mind of Burns. Fame ex- 
aggerated his misconduct, and represented 
him as acttially dismissed from his office ; 
and this report induced a gentleman of 
much respectability [.Mr. Erskine of Jlarr] 
to propose a subscrijition in his favour. 
The offer was refused by our poet iu a 
letter of great elevation of sentiment, in 
which he gives an accoimt of the v^hole of 
this transaction, and defends himself from 
the imputation of disloyal sentiments on 
the one hand, and on the other, from the 
charge of having made submissions fur f he 
sake of his office unworthy of his character. 

"The partiality of my countrvmen," he 
observes, " has brought me forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a character 
to support. In the poet I have avowed 
manly and independent sentiments, which I 
hope have been found in the man. Reasons 
of no less weight than the support of a wife 
and children, have pointed out my present 
occupation as the only eligi ale line of life 
within my reach. Still m\ honest fame is 
my dearest concern, and a thousand times 
have I trembled at i^e idea of the degrading 



BUENS'S POLITICS, 



Si 



epirhfts that malice or misrepresentation 
iiiiiy atfix to my name. Often in blasting: 
anticipation have I hstened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy mahce of 
3ava;^e stupidity, exultingly asserting tliat 
Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of 
independence to be found in his works, and 
after having been lield up to pubhc view, 
and to pubhc estimation, as a man of some 
genius, yet, quite destitute of resources 
within himself lo support his borrowed 
diiiuity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, 
and slunk out the rest of his insignilioant 
existence in the meanest of pursuits, and 
among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
to lodge ray strong disavowal and deriance 
of such slanderous falsehoods. Burns was 
t poor man from his birth, and an exciseman 
by necessity ; but — I will say it ! the 
sterling of his honest worth poverty covdd 
not debase, and his indei)endent British 
spirit oppression might bend, but could not 
Bubdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to 
copy this letter into his book of manuscripts, 
accompanied by some additional remarks on 
t)ie same subject. It is not surprising, that 
at a season of universal alarm for the 
safety of the constitution, the indiscreet 
expressions of a man so jiowerfid as Burns 
should have attracted notice. The times 
certainly reqiured extraordinary vigilance m 
those entrusted with the administration of 
the government, and to ensure the safety of 
the constitution was doubtless their first 
duty. Yet generous minds will lament 
that their measures of precaution should 
have robbed the imagination of our poet 
of the last prop on which his hopes of 
independence rested; and by embittering 
his peace, have aggra\ated those excesses 
vhicli were soon to conduct him to an 
untimely grave. (105) 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating 
liiiuors, might lead him into many improper 
and un2"'jarded expressions, there seems no 
reason to doubt of his attachment to our 
mixed form of government. In his lommon- 
p'l'cc bjok, where he could have no tempta- 
tion to disguise, are the following senti- 
ments: — "^Vhatever might be my sentiments 
of republics, ancient or modern, as to 
Britain, I ever abjured the idea. A con- 
Biitution, which, in its original principles, 
experience has proved to be every way fitted 
for our happiness, it would be insanity to 
abandon for an untried visionary theory." 
\n coufoimity to thes^ sentiments, when 



the pressing nature of pulilc affairs ralle.l, 
in 1795, for a general arming of the peojile. 
Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dumft-ies 
volunteers, and employed his poetical talei.ts 
in stimulating their patriotism (106) ; and 
at this season of alarm, he brought furwaid 
the following hymn, worthy of tl e Grecian 
Muse, when Greece was most conspicuous 
for genius and valour : — 

Scene— A field of battle-Time of the dny, 
evening — The wounded and dyins; of the 
victorious army are supposed to join in tho 
foUowins: sorisr : — 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth and 
ye skies, 
Now say with the brisht setting sun ! 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear 
tender ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 
Thou frrim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [know, 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 
Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the 
dark, 
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorioTU 
mark ! 
He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hi;nds, 
Our kini,' and our country to save — [sands, 
While victory .«hincs on life's last ebbing 
Oh ! who would not rest with the 
brave! (107) 

Though by nature of an athletic form. 
Burns had in his constitution the pecu- 
liarities and the delicacies that belong to 
the temperament of genius. lie was liable, 
from a very early period of life, to t'nat 
interruption in the process of digestion, 
which arises from deep and anxious thought, 
and which is sometimes the effect, and 
sometimes the cause, of depression of 
spirits. Connected with this disorder of the 
stomach, there was a disposition to head* 
ache, affecting more especially the tem])les 
and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied 
by violent and irregular movements of the 
heart. Endow-ed by nature with great 
seiisibihty of nerves. Burns was, in his cor- 
poreal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions — to fever 
of body as well as of mind. This pre- 
disposition to disease, which strict tempe- 
rance in diet, regvdar exercise, and ground 
sleep, might have subdued, habits of a very 
different nature strengthened and inflamed. 
Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one or 
other of its various forms, the inordinate 
actions of the circulating system became at 
length habitual ; the process of ^utrit iott 




iiiiiiiiiillliliilliiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'inniiiin 







60 



LIFE OF BUElSrS. 



ras unable to supply the waste, and the j 
powers of hfe be^an to fail. Upwards of a 
year before his death, there was an evident 
dec!Jne in our poet's personal appearance, 
uid thoiigli his appetite continued unim- 
paired, he was himself sensible that his 
constitution was sinking. In his moments 
of thought he reflected with the deepest 
regret on his fatal progress, clearly foresee- 
ing the goal towards which he wai hastening, 
without the strength of mind uecessary to 
8top, or even to slacken his course. His 
temper now became more irritable and 
gloomy ; he fled from hnnself into society, 
often of the lowest kind. And in such 
company, that part of the comivial scene in 
whicli wine increases sensibility and excites 
benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
passion generally presided. He who sufl'ers 
the pollution of inebriation, how shall he 
escape other pollution V But let us rclVain 
fi'om the mention of errors over which 
delicacy and humanity draw the veil. 

[A similar view of the latter days of 
Burns IS taken bv his biographers, Heron, 
Irving, Walker, and, in general, by all who 
wrote soon after his death. Mr. Lockhart, 
supported by attestations from Gilbert 
Burns, James Gray, then rector of the 
grammar-school of Dumfries, and Mr. Find- 
later, the poet's superior otlicer, gives a 
more favourable representation. The letter 
of Gray presents so interesting a picture of 
Burns in all respects, that we cannot resist 
the temptation to connect it with the text 
of Currie : — 

" I love Dr. Currie, but I love the memory 
of Burns more, and no consideration shall 
deter me from a bold declaration of the 
truth. The poet of the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, who felt all the charms of the 
humble piety and virtue which he sang, is 
charged (in Dr. Currie's narrative) with 
Tices which would reduce him to a level 
v.'ith the most degraded of his species. As 
1 knew him during that period of his life 
emphatically called his evil days, I am 
enabled to speak from my own observation. 
It is not my intention to extenuate his 
errors, because they were combined with 
genius ; on that account, they were only 
the more dangerous, because the more 
teductive, and deserve the more severe re- 
prehension ; but I shall likewise claim that 
nothing may be said in malice even against 
him It came under my own view pro- 
fessionally, that he superintended the educa- 
tion of his children with a degree of care 
that / have never seen surpassed by any 



parent in any rank of life whatever. Ll 
the bosom of his family he spent mai.y a 
delightful hour in directing the studies o( 
his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talenta. 
I have frequently found him explaining to 
this youth, then not more than nine years 
of age, the English poets, from Shakspeaie 
to Gray, or storing his mind with examples 
of heroic virtue, as they live in the page.'* of 
our most celebrated English historians. I 
would ask any person of common candour, 
if employments like these are consistent 
with huhitiial drunkenness ? It is not denied 
that he sometimes mingled with society 
unworthy of him. He was of a social and 
convivial nature. He was courted by idl 
classes of men for tlie fascinating powers of 
his conversation, but over his social scene 
uncontrolled passion never presided. Over 
the social bowl, his wit flashed for hours 
together, penetrating whatever it struck, 
like the fire from heaven ; but even in the 
hour of thoughtless gaiety and merriment, 
I never knew it tainted by indecency. It 
was playful or caustic by turns, following an 
allusion through all its windings ; astonish- 
ing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild 
originality, and grotesque, yet natural com- 
binations, but never, within my observation, 
disgusting by its grossness. In his morning 
hours, I never saw him like one suff'ering 
from the eft'ects of last night's intemperance. 
He appeared then clear and luiclouded. He 
was the eloquent advocate of humanity, 
justice, and political fi-eedom. From his 
l)aintiiigs, virtue appeared more lovely, and 
piety assumed a more celestial mien. \Mule 
his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and 
feeling, and his voice attuned to the very 
passion winch he wished to communicate, it 
would hardly have been possible to conceive 
z.ny being moi-e interesting and delighttid. 
I may likewise add, that, to the very end of 
his life, reading was his favourite ainuce- 
ment. I have never known any man so 
intimately acquainted with the elegant 
English authors. He seemed to have the 
poets by heart. Tlie prose authors he could 
quote either in their own words, or clothe 
their ideas in language more beautiful than 
their own. Nor was there ever any decay 
in any of the powers of his mind. To the 
last day of his life, his judgment, his 
memory, his imagination, were fresh and 
vigorous as when he composed the Cotter'. 
Saturday Night. The tiuth is, tl».t Biu-ns 
was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soou 
becomes besotted, and is shunned ev;n by 
the convivial. Had he been so, he could 
not long have continued the idol of ever» 







fe^ 



hMHi;,iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii;{iiiiiiniiii!inii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiniii 




HABITS OF INTOXICATIOIS. 



61 



party. It wi^l be freely confessed, that the 
hour of enjoyment was often prolonged 
heynnd the limit marked by prudence ; but 
what man will venture to affirm, that in 
situations where he was conscious of giving 
80 nmch pleasure, he could at all times have 
listened to her voice ? 

"The men with whom he generally asso- 
ciated were not of the lowest order. He 
numbered among his intimate friends many 
of the most respectable inhabitants of Dum- 
fries and the vicinity. Several of those were 
attaciied to him by ties that th e hand of the 
ca'umuy, busy as it was, coiJd never snap 
asunder. They admired the poet for his 
genius, and loved the man for the candour, 
generosity, and kindr.ess of his nature. His 
early friends clmig to tiim through good and 
bad report, with a zeal and fidelity that 
prove their disbelief of the malicious stories 
circulated to his disadvantage. Among them 
were some of the most distingiushed charac- 
ters in this country, and not a few females 
eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They 
were proud of his friendship, and cherished 
him to the fast moment of his existence. 
He was endeared to them even by his mis- 
fortunes, and they still retain for his memory 
that affectionate veneration which virtue 
alone inspires." 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gen- 
tleness and forgiveness, except in the gnaw- 
ings of his own remorse. He acknowledged 
his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, 
promised amendment, and again and again 
received pardon for his offences. But as 
the strength of his body decayed, his resolu- 
<ion became feebler, and liabit acquired pre- 
dominating strength. 

From October 1795 to the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined him to 
tht house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned 
home about three o'clock in a very cold 
morning, benumbed and intoxicated. (108) 
This was followed by an attack of rheuma- 
tism, which confined him about a week. His 
appetite now began to fail ; his hand shook, 
and his voice faltered on any exertion or 
emotion. His pulse became weaker and 
more rapid, and pain in the larger johits, and 
in the hands and feet, deprived him of the 
enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much 
dejected in his spirits, and too well aware of 
Lis real situation to entertain hopes of re- 
covery, he was e\ er musing on the approach- 
ing desolation of his family, and his spirits 
Huik into a uniform gloom. 

It «aa hooted by some of his friends, that 



if he could live through the ivortlis of 

spring, the succeeding season might resto.re 
him. But they were disappointed, 'liie 
genial beams of the sun infused no vigour 
mto his languid frame ; the summer wind 
blew upon him, but produced no rejlVeshmenl, 
About the latter end of June he was advijed 
to go into the country ; and impatient of 
me<lical advice, as well as of every speciet of 
control, he determined for himself to try the 
effects of bathing in the sea. For this par- 
pose he took up his residence at Brow, in 
Annandale, about ten miles east of Dum- 
fries, on the shore of the Solway Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady with 
whom he had been connected in friendsiiip 
by the sympathies of kindred genius, was 
residing in the immediate neighbourhood. 
(109) Being informed of his arrival, she in- 
vited him to dinner, and sent her carriage 
for him to the cottage where he lodged, aa 
he was unable to walk. " I was struck," 
says this lady (in a confidential letter to a 
friend written soon after], " with his appear- 
ance on entering the room. The stamp of 
death was imprmted c-^ his features. He 
seemed already touching the brink of eternity. 
His first salutation was, ' WcU, madam, have 
you any commands for the other world? ' I 
replied, that it seemed a doubtful case which 
of us should be there soonest, and that [ 
hoped he would yet hve to write my epitaph. 
(I was then in a bad state of health.) He 
looked in ray face with an air of great kind- 
ness, and expressed his concern at seeing rae 
look so ill, with his accustomed sensibilit». 
At table he ate little or nothing, and he com- 
plained of having entirely lost the tone of 
his stomach. We had a long and serious 
conversation about his present situation, and 
the approaching termination of all his earthly 
prospects. He spoke of his death without 
any of the ostentation of phdosophy, but 
with firmness as well as feeling, as an event 
likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
children so young and unprotected, and hi» 
wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly 
expectation of lying in of a fifth. He men- 
tioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
the promising genius of his eldest son, and 
the flattering marks of approbation he had 
received from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's futurtt 
conduct and merit. His anxiety for bis 
family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and 
the more perhaps from the reflection that he 
had not done them all the justice he nas so 
well qualified to do. Passing from this sub- 
ject, he showed great concern about the vsnt 







62 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



of (lis literary faiae, and particularly the 
puiilicatioH of his posthumous works. He 
said he was well aware that his death would 
occasion some noise, and that every scrap of 
his writing would be revived against him to 
the injury of his future rep\itation ; that 
ktters and verses written with unguarded 
«nd nuproper freedom,and which he earnestly 
wislied to have buried in obhvion, would be 
handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
when no dread of his resentraent would re- 
strain them, or prevent the censures of shriU- 
tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of 
en\y, from pouring forth all their veaom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he enter- 
tained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound; and many in- 
diii'creivt poetical pieces, which he feared 
woidd now, with all their imperfections on 
their head, be thrust upon the world. On 
this account he deeply regretted having de- 
ferred to put his papers in a state of arrauge- 
nien., as he was now quite incapable of the 
exei.cion." The lady goes on to mention 
mi.ny other topics of a private nature on 
which he spoke. "The conversation," she 
adds, "was kept up with great evenness and 
animation on his side. I had seldom seen 
his mind greater or more collected. There 
was frequently a considerable degree of viva- 
city in his sallies, and they would probably 
have had a greater share, had not the con- 
cern and dejection 1 could not disguise 
damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed 
not unwilling to indulge. 

■' We parted about sunset on the evening 
of that day (the 5th of Jidy 179G) : the next 
day 1 saw him again, and we parted to meet 
no more ! " 

At first Burns imagined bathing in the 
eea had been of benetit to him : the pains in 
his limbs were relieved; but this was imme- 
diately followed by a new attack of fever. 
\\ hen brought back to his own house in 
Dumfries, on the 18th of Julj', he was no 
longer able to stand upright. At this time 
a tremor pervaded his frame ; his tongue was 
parched, and his mind sank into delirium, 
when not roused by conversation. On the 
second and tliird day the fever increased, and 
lus strength diminished. On the fourth, the 
sufferings of tliis great, but ill-fated genius, 
were terminated ; and a life was closed in 
w liich virtue and passion had been in perpetual 
variance. (110) 

'the death of Bums made a strong and 
general impression on all w ho had interested 
themaclv«?» ;u his character, and especially 



on the inhabitant? of thf toivn and cimnty in 
which he had spent tlie latter years of hw 
life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had 
been, they had not deprived hiin of the re- 
spect and regard entertained for the extra- 
ordinary powers of his gemus, and the 
generous qualities of his heart. The Gentle, 
men- Volunteers of Dumfries determined to 
bury their illustrious associate with military 
honours, arsd every preparation was made to 
render this last service solemn and impressive. 
The Fencible Infantry of Angus-shire, and 
the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Forts, 
at that time quartered in Dumfries, olfered 
their assistance on this occasion ; the prin- 
cipal inhabitants of the town and neighbour- 
hood determined to walk in the funeral 
procession ; and a vast concourse of persons 
assembled, some of them from a considerable 
distance, to witness the obsequies of the 
Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th 
of July, the remains of Burns were removed 
from ids house to the Town Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succ eeduig day. A 
party of the volunteers, selected to perforni 
the military duty in the churchyard, stationea 
themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the mam body of the 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, 
on w hich were placed the hat and sword of 
their friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous 
body of attendants ranged themselves in the 
rear; while the Fencible regiments of infantry 
and cavalry lined the streets from the Town 
Hall to the burial ground in the southern 
churchyard, a distance of more than half a 
mile. The whole procession moved forward 
to that sublime and affecting strain of music, 
the Dead March in Saul ; and three volliea 
lired over his grave marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle 
was in a high degree grand and solemn, and 
accorded with the general sentiments of 
sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had 
called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on 
the morning of the day of her husband's 
funeral, ]Mrs. Burns was undergoing the 
pains of labour ; and that during the solemn 
service we have just l>een describing, the 
posthumous son of our poet was bom. 
This infant boy, who received the name of 
Maxwell, was not destined to a long life. 
He has already become an inhabitant of the 
same grave with bis celebrated father. The 
four other children of our poet, all sons (the 
eldest at that time about ten years of age), 
yet survive, and give every promise of pru- 
dence and virtue that can be expected from 
their tender years. They remaui under tho 








ILLNESS AIO) DEATH OF BUfiXS. 



6» 



fare of their affectionate mother in Dum- 
fries, and are enjoyino^ the means of e(hica- 
tioii \vhicl» the excellent schools of that 
town afford ; the teachers of which, in 
rhcir conduct to the children of Burns, do 
themselves great honour. On this occasion 
the name of Mr. Whyte deserves to be par- 
ticularly mentioned, himself a poet as well 
as a man of science. (Ill) 

13urus died in great poverty; but the in- 
dtpeudeiice of his spirit, and the exemplary 
piudeuce of his wife, had preserved him 
fr )iu debt. (112) He had received from his 
p cms a clear profit of about nine hundred 
p lunds. Of this sum, the part expended on 
his library (which was far from extensive) 
aud in the humble furniture of his house, 
remained ; and obligations were found for 
t.vo hundred pounds advanced by bim to the 
assistance of those to whom he was united 
by the ties of blood, and still more by those 
of esteem and affection. \Mien it is con- 
sidered, that his expenses in Edinburgh, and 
on his various joiu-nies, could not be incon- 
siderable ; that his agricultural undertaking 
was unsuccessful ; that his income from the 
Excise was for some time as low as fifty, 
and never rose to above seventy pounds 
a-year ; that his family was large, and his 
spirit liberal — no one will be surprised that 
his circumstances were so poor, or that, as 
his health decayed, his proud and feeling 
heart sank under the secret consciousness of 
uidigence, and the apprehensions of absolute 
want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of 
Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither 
chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared in 
his conduct. He carried his disregard of 
money to a blameable excess. Even in the 
midst of distress he bore himself loftily to 
the world, and received with a jealous re- 
luctance every offer of friendly assistance. 
Dis printed poems had procured him great 
celebrity and a just and fair recompense for 
the latter offsprings of his pen might have 
proiluced him considerable emolument. In 
the year 1793, the editor of a London news- 
paper, high in its character for literature and 
indepeiiilence of sentiment, made a pro^iosal 
to him that he should furnish them, once 
a-week, with an article for their poetical 
department, and receive from them a recom- 
pense of fifty-two guineas per annum ; an 
olftr which the pride of genius disdained to 
tc('ept. Yet he had for several years fur- 
nished, and was at that time furnishing, the 
Museum of Jobs son with his beautiful 
lyrics, without fee or reward, and was obsti- 
tiately refusing all recompense for his assist- 
1U1C9 to the g-reater work of Mr. Thomson, 



7* 



which the justice and generosity of that 
gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching cUstress of his infant family, 
pressed heavily on Bums as he lay on the 
bed of death. Yet he alluded to his indi- 
gence, at times, with something approaching 
to his wonted gaiety. " AVhat business," 
said he to Dr. Max\\'eU, who attended him 
with the utmost zeal, " has a physician to 
waste his time on me ? I am a poor pigeoa 
not worth plucking. Alas ! 1 have not 
feathers enough upon me to carry me to my 
grave." And when his reason was lost iu 
delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- 
choly train ; the horrors of a jail were coa 
tinually present to his troubled imagination, 
and produced the most affecting exclama- 
tions. 

As for some months previous to his death 
he had been incapable of the duties of lug 
othce. Burns dreaded that his salary should 
be reduced one half, as is usual in such 
cases. His full emoluments were, however, 
continued to him by the kindness of Mr. 
Stobie (113), a yoiuig expectant iu the Ex- 
cise, who performed the duties of his office 
without fee or rew ard ; and Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, hearing of his illness, though un- 
acquainted with its dangerous nature, made 
an offer of his assistance towards procuring 
him the means of preserving his health. 
'\^'hatever might be the faults of Burns, in- 
gratitude was not of the number. Amongst 
his manuscripts, various proofs are found of 
the sense he entertained of Mr. Graham's 
friendship, which delicacy towards that gen- 
tleman has induced us to suppress ; and on 
this last occasion there is no doubt that his 
heart overflowed towards him, though he 
had no longer the power of expressing his 
feelings. (114) 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants 
of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened 
a subscription for the support of his isife 
and family ; and Jlr. Miller, I\Ir, M':\Iurdrv, 
Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syne, and Mr. Cunning- 
ham, gentlemen of the first respectability, 
became trustees for the application of the 
money to its proper objects. The subscrip- 
tion was extended to other parts of Scotland, 
and of England aiso, particularly Londou 
and Liverpool. By this means a sum was 
raised amounting to seven hundred pounds; 
and thus the widow and children were re* 
cued from immediate distress, and the most 
melancholy of the forebodings of Bumi 
happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, 
though equal to their present support, is in- 
suflScient to secv re them from future penury 








6^ 



m. 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



fhtir hop8 in regard to futurity depends on 
the fa\'ourable reception of these vohimes 
from the puljic at large, in the promoting of 
which the candour and humanity of the 
reader may induce him to lend his assist- 
KBce. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, 
was nearly five feet ten inches in height, and 
of a form that indicated agility as well as 
Strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded 
with black curling hair, indicated extensive 
capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of 
avdour and intelligence. His foce was well 
formed ; and his countenance uncommonly 
uitcresting and expressive. His mode of 
dressing, which was often slovenly, and a 
certain fuluess and bend in his shoulders, 
characteristic of his original profession, dis- 
piised in some degree the natural symmetry 
imd elegance of his form. The external 
appearance of Burns was most strikingly 
indicative of the character of his mind. 
On a first view, his physiognomy had a cer- 
tain air of coarseness, mingled, however, 
■viith an expression of deep penetration, and 
of calm thonghtfulness, approaching to me- 
lancholy. There appeared in his first manner 
Hnd address, perfect ease and self-possession, 
out astern and almost supercilious elevation, 
lot, indeed, incompatible with openness and 
affability, which, however, bespoke a mind 
■conscious of superior talents. Strangers 
that supposed themselves approaching an 
.Ayrshire peasant who could make rhymes, 
•.nd to whom their notice was an honour, 
found themselves speeddy overawed by the 
presence of a man who bore himself with 
•dignity, and who possessed a smgular power 
«f correcting forwardness and of repelling 
•ntrusion. (115) But though jealous of the 
'espect due toliiraself. Burns never enforced 
it where he saw h was willingly paid ; and, 
though inaccessible to the approaches of 
pride, he was open to every advance of 
kindness and of benevolence. His dark and 
haughty co\nitenance easily relaxed into a 
lo'.>k of good will, of pity, or of tenderness; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each 
other in his mind, assumed with equal ease 
the expression of the broadest humour, of 
the most extravagant mirtli, ef tlie deepest 
melancholy, or of the most suulirae emotion. 
The tones of his voice happily corresponded 
with the expression of his features, and with 
the feelings of his mind. When to these 
endoxnnents are added a rapid and distinct 
apprehension, a most powerful understand- 
ing, and a happy command of language — of 
itreiigtU as well as brilliancy of expression — 
for ihe extraor- 



dinary attractions of his conversation — foi 
the sorcery which in his social parties he 
seemed to exert on all around him. In the 
company of women tliis sorcery was more 
especially apparent. Their presence charmed 
tlie fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and 
awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the 
powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness 
of his heart ; and, by restraining the vehe- 
mence and exuberance of his language, at 
times gave to his manners the impression of 
taste, and even of elegance, which iu the 
company of men they seldom possessed. 
This influence was doubtless reciprocal. A 
Scottish lady accustomed to the best society, 
declared with characteristic niiiiHe, that no 
man's conversation ever carried her so com- 
pk'tehj off her feet as that of Burns ; and 
an English lady, familiarly acquainted with 
several of the most distinguished characters 
of the present times, assured the editor, that 
in the happiest of his social hours, there waa 
a charm about Burns which she had never 
seen equalled. This charm arose not more 
from the power than the versatility of his 
genius. No languor could be felt in the 
society of a man who passed at pleasure 
from grave to gmj, from the ludicrous to 
the pathetic, from the simple to the sub- 
lime ; who wielded aU his faculties with 
equal strength and ease, and never failed to 
impress the offspring of his fancy v/ith the 
stamp of his understanding. 

Tliis, indeed, is to represent Bums in his 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes 
fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of 
the proud man's scorn, jealous to an extreme 
of the insolence of wealth, and prone to 
avenge, even on its innocent pos lessor, the 
partiality of fortune. By nature kind, brave, 
sincere, and in a singular degree compas- 
sionate, he was on the other hand proud, 
irascible, and vindictive. His virtues and his 
failings had their origin in the extraordinary 
sensibility of his mind, and equally partook 
of the chills and glows of sentiment. Hia 
friendships were liable to interruption from 
jealousy or disgust, and his enmities died 
away under the infl\ience of pity or self- 
accusation. His understanding was equal 
to the other powers of his mind, and his 
deliberate opinions were singularly candid 
and just ; but, like other men of great and 
irregular genius, the opinions which he de- 
livered in conversation were o^'ten tho 
offspring of temporary feelings, and widely 
different from the calm decisions of hia 
judgment. This was not merely true re- 
gpectiug the characters of otben^ but in 



CHiRACTEElSTICS OF BURNS. 



6J 



regard to some of the most important points 
cif human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striding 
proof of the strength of his understanding, 
tlian in the correct estimate he formed of 
himself. He knew his own failings ; he 
predicted their consequence ; the melancholy 
foreboding was never long absent from his 
mind; yet his passions carried him down 
the stream of error, and swept him over the 
precipice he saw directly in his course. The 
fatal defect in his character lay in the 
comparative weakness of his volition, that 
superior faculty of the mind, which, goveru- 
Lig the conduct according to the dictates of 
the understanding, alone entitles it to be 
denominated rational ; which is the parent 
of fortitude, patience, and self-denial; which, 
by regulating and combining human exer- 
tions, may be said to have effected all that 
19 great in the works of man, in literature, 
in science, or on the face of nature. The 
occupations of a poet are not calculated to 
strengthen the governing powers of the 
mind, or to weaken that sensibility which 
requires perpetual control, since it gives 
birth to the vehemence of passion as well 
as to the higher powers of im^nation. 
Unfortunately, the favourite occupations of 
genius are calculated to increase all its pecu- 
uarities; to nourish that lofty pride which 
disdains the littleness of prudence, and the 
restrictions of order : and, by indulgence, 
to increase that sensibility which, in the 
present form of our existence, is scarcely 
compatible with peace or happiness, even 
when accompanied with the choicest gifts of 
fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend 
and associate of Burns (116^, and who has 
contemplated and explained the system of 
animated nature, that no sentient being with 
mental powers greatly superior to those of 
men, could possibly live and be happy in 
this world. "If such a being really existed," 
continues he, "his misery would be extreme. 
With senses more delicate and refined; with 
perceptions more acute and penetrating ; 
with a taste so exquisite that the objects 
around him would by no means gratify it ; 
obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for 
his frame — he must be born only to be 
miserable, and the continuation of his exist- 
ence would be utterly impossible. Even in 
our present condition, the sameness and the 
insipidity of objects and pursuits, the futility 
of pleasure, and the infinite sources of ex- 
cruciating pain, are supported with great 
difficulty by cultivated and refined minds. 
Incrcftfie our sensibihties. continue the same 



objects and situation, and no man could bear 
to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sen- 
sation, as well as aU oiu- other powers, are 
adapted to the scene of our existence ; that 
they are limited iu mercy, as well as in 
wisdom. 

The speculations of ]\Ir. Smellie are not to 
be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; 
they were probably founded on sad experi. 
ence. The being he supposes " with seuse3 
more delicate and refined, with perceptions 
more acute and penetrating," is lo be found 
in real life. He is of the temperament of 
genius, and perhaps a poet. Is there, then, 
no remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? 
Are there no means by which the happiness 
of one so constituted by nature may be con- 
sulted? Perhaps it will be found, that 
regular and constant occupation, irksomp 
though at first it may be, is the true remedy 
Occupation in which the powers of the un 
derstanding are exercised, will diminish th' 
force of external impressions, and keep th« 
imagination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should 
be followed in his education and in his des- 
tination in life, is a maxim which has been 
often repeated, but which cannot lie admitted 
without many restrictions. It may be gene- 
rally true when applied to weak minds, which 
being capable of Uttle, must be encouraged 
and strengthened in the feeble impulses by 
which that little is produced. But where 
indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts with 
a liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim 
ought frequently to be the rule of conduct 
In minds of a higher order, the object of 
instruction and of discipline is very often to 
restram, rather than to impel ; to curb the 
impulses of imagination, so that the passioug 
also may be kept under control. (117; 

Hence the advantages, even in a majral 
point of view, of studies of a severer nature^ 
which, while they inform the understanding, 
employ the volition, that regulating power 
of the mind, which, like all our other facid- 
ties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
superiority of vidiich virtue, happiness, and 
honourable fame, are wholly dependent. 
Hence also the advantage of regular and 
constaiit appUcation, which aids the volim- 
tary power by the production of habits ■• 
necessary to the support of order and virtue 
and so difficult to be formed in the tempera- 
ment of genius. Tlie man who is so 
endowed and so regidated, may pursue his 
course with confidence in almost any of the 
various walks of life which choice )r acci- 
dent shall open to him; and, proviled hA 



66 



LIFE OF BTIRN^. 



employ the talents he haj cultivated, may 
hop6 for such impeifect happiness, and such 
limited success, as are reasonably to be ex- 
pected from human exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which pro- 
cures personal respect, and which terminates 
in lasting reputation, is seldom or never 
obtained by the excellence of a single faculty 
of mind. Experience teaches us, that it has 
been acquired by those only who have pos- 
sessed the comprehension and the energy of 
general talents, and who have regulated 
their application in the line which choice, or 
perhaps accident, may have determined, by 
the dictates of their judgment. Iniaguuition 
is supposed, and with justice, to be the 
leading faculty of the poet. But what poet 
has stood the test of time by the force of 
this single faculty ? Who does not see that 
Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of 
their species in understanding as well as in 
imagination ; that they were pre-eminent in 
the highest species of knowledge — the know- 
ledge of the nature and character of man? 
On the other hand, the talent of ratiocination 
is more especially requisite to the orator; 
but no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, 
even by the highest excellence in this single 
talent. Vflw does not perceive that Demos- 
thenes and Cicero were not more happy in 
their addresses to the reason than in their 
appeals to the passions? They knew, that 
to excite, to agitate, and to delight, are 
among the most potent arts of persuasion ; 
and they enforced their impression on the 
understanding, by their command of all the 
sympathies of the heart. These observations 
might be extended to other walks of life, 
lie who has the faculties fitted to excel in 
poetry, has the facidties which, duly governed, 
an<l differently directed, might lead to pre- 
eminence in other, and, as far as respects 
himself, perha]^ in happier destinations. 
The talents necessary to the construction 
of an Iliad, under different discipline and 
application, might have led armies to %'ic- 
tory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might have 
wielded the thunder of eloquence, or dis- 
cov(;red and enlarged the sciences that con- 
stitute the power and improve the condition 
of our species. (118) Such talents are, 
icdeed, rare among the productions of na- 
ture, aud occasions of bringing them into 
full exertion are rarer still. But safe and 
salutary occupations may be found for men 
of senius in every direction, while the usefid 
And ornamental arts remain to be cultix'ated, 
while the sciences remain to be studied and 
to be extended, and principles of science to 
be apphed to the conection and improve- 



ment of art. In the tem])erament of sensi- 
bility, which is, in truth, the temperament ol 
general talents, the principal object of disci- 
pline and instruction is, as has already been 
mentioned, to strengthen the self-command ; 
and this may be promoted by the direction oj 
the studies, more effectually, perhaps, than 
has been generally imderstood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequen'-es of 
some importance. It has been too mncb 
the custom to consider the possessrou o/ 
poetical talents as excluding the possibility 
of application to the severer branches of 
study, and as, in some degree, incapacitating 
the possessor from attaining those habits, 
aud from bestowing that attention, which 
are necessary to success in the details of 
business, and in the engagements of activ* 
life. It has been common for persons com- 
scious of such talents, to look with a sort of 
disdain on other kinds of intellectual excel- 
lence, and to consider themselves as in some 
degree absolved from those rules of prudence 
by which humbler minds are restricted. 
They are too much disposed to abandon 
themselves to their own sensations, and to 
suffer life to pass away without regular 
exertion or settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally 
prone to indolence, with them indolence and 
unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
allied. The unbidden splendours of imagi- 
nation may, indeed, at times irradiate tlic 
gloom wliich inactivity produces ; but such 
visions, though bright, are transient, and 
serve to cast the realities of life into deeper 
shade. In bestowing great talents. Nature 
seems very generally to have imposed on the 
possessor the necessity of exertion, if he 
would escape wretchedness. Better for him 
than sloth, toils the most painful, or adven- 
tures the most hazardous. Happier to him 
tiian idleness were the condition of the 
peasant, earning with incessant labour hii 
scanty food ; or that of the sailor, though 
hanging on the yard-arm, aud wi'esthng with 
the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illus- 
trated by the biography of men of genius of 
every denomination, and more especially by 
the biography of the poets. Of this last 
desL-ription of men, few seem to have enjoyed 
the usual portion of happiness that falls to 
the lot of humanity, those excepted who 
have cultivated poetry as an elegant amuse- 
ment in the hours of relaxation from otlier 
occupations, or the small number m ho have 
engaged with success in the greater or more 
arduous attempts of the muse, in which aU 








INFLUENCES OF MELANCHOLY. 



6T 



the fticulties of the mind have been fully 
and permanently employed. Even taste, 
virtne, and comparative independence, do 
not seem capable of bestowing; on men of 
genius peace and tranquillity, without such 
occupation as may give regular and healthful 
exercise to the faculties of body and mind. 
The amiable Shenstone has left us the re- 
cords of his imprudence, of his indolence, 
and of his unhappiness, amidst the shades 
of the Leasowes ; and the virtues, the learn- 
ing, and the genius of Gray, equal to the 
loftiest attempts of the epic muse, failed to 
procure him in the academic bowers of Cam- 
bridge that tranquillity and that respect 
which less fastidiousness of taste, and greater 
constancy and vigour of exertion, would have 
doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self- 
command, and of exertion, because their 
indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely 
to unhappiness, b<it to diseases of mind, and 
to errors of conduct, which are generally 
fatal. This interesting subject deserves a 
particular investigation ; but we must content 
ourselves with one or two cursory remarks. 
Relief is sometimes sought from the melan- 
choly of indolence in practices which, for a 
time, soothe and gratify the sensations, but 
which, in the end, involve the sufferer in 
darker gloom. To command the external 
circumstarrces by which happiness is affected, 
is not in human power ; but there are various 
substances in nature which operate on the 
system of the nerves, so as to give a tictitious 
gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and to 
alter the effect of the external impressions 
which we receive. Opium is chiefly em- 
ployed for this purpose by the disciples of 
iMahomet and the inhabitants of Asia ; but 
alcohol, the principle of intoxication in 
vinous and spirituous liquors, is preferred in 
Europe, and is universally used in the Chris- 
tian world. (1 19) Under the various wounds to 
which indolent insensibility is exposed, and 
under the gloomy apprehensions respecting 
futurity to which it is so often a prey, how 
strong is the temptation tn have recourse 
to an antidote by which the pain of these 
wounds is suspended, by which the heart is 
exhilirated, visions of happiness are excited 
in the mind, and the forms of external na- 
ture clothed with new beauty 1 

" Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing phrenzy buoys the li^hten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 



Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier 
gloom 

Shuts o'er your head 

* * • • 

Morning comes ; your cares return 

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach wp1\ 
l\Iay be endured — so may the throbbing head: 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves j'ou ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus 

felt. 
When, baited round Cithneron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 
— Armslroiiff's Art of Preserving Health, b. iv, 
1. 163. 

Such are the pleasures and pains of intoxi- 
cation, as they occur in the temperament of 
sensiliility, described by a genuine poet, with 
a degree of truth and energy which nothing 
but experience could have dictated. There 
are, indeed, some individuals of this tem- 
perament on whom wine produces no cheer- 
ixig influence. On some, even in very 
moderate quantities, its effects are painfully 
irritating; in large draughts it excites dark 
and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts still 
larger, the fierceness of insanity itself Such 
men are happily exempted from a temptation 
to flhieh experience teaches us the finest 
dispositions often yield, and the influence of 
which, when strengthened by habit, it is a 
humiliating truth, that the most powerful 
minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard agauist the habitual 
use of wine, because it is apt to steal on 
them insensibly, and because the tcmptatioa 
to excess usually presents itself to them iu 
their social hours, when they are alive only 
to warm and generous emotions, aiul when 
prudence and moderation are often con- 
temned as selfishness and tiaiidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to giiard 
against excess in the use of wine, because on 
them its effects are, physically and morally, 
in an especial manner injurious. In pro- 
portion to its stimulating influence on the 
system (on which the pleasurable sensationg 
depend, is the debility that ensues — a de- 
bility that destroys digestion, and terminates 
in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, 
or insanity. As the strength of the body 
decays, the volition fails ; in proportion as 
the sensations are soothed and gratified, the 
sensibility increases ; and morbid sensibility 
is the parent of indolence, because, while it 
impairs the regulating power of the mind, it 
exaggerates all the obstacles to exertiua. 
Activity, perseverance, and self-commard, 
become more and more difficult, and the grerf 
purposes of atiliJy, pa*^riotism, or of houour- 



68 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



able ambition, which had occupied the ima- 
gination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or 
iu feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a useless as well 
Bs a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we 
owe to the living, not to allow our admira- 
tion of great genius, or even our pity for its 
Unhappy destniy, to conceal or disguise its 
errors. But there are sentiments of respect, 
and even of tenderness, with which this 
duty should be performed ; there is an awful 
eauctity which invests the mansions of the 
dead ; and let those who moralise over the 
graves of their contemporaries, reflect with 
humility on their own errors, nor forget how 
toon they may themselves reqviire the can- 
dour and the syuipaihy they are called upon 
to bestow 



Soon after the death of Burns, the follow- 
jig article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, 
from which it was copied into the Edinburgh 
newspapers, and into various other periodical 
publications. It is from the elegant pen of 
a lady, already alluded to in the course of 
these memoirs (120), whose exertions for the 
family of our bard, in the circles of literature 
and fashion in which she moves, have done 
her so much honour. 

" The attention of the ptiblic seems to be 
much occupied at pre.sent flith tlie loss it 
has recently sustained in the death of tJie 
Caledonian poet, Robert Bunis ; a loss cal- 
culated to be i»evereiy'felt throughout the 
literary worh?, as well as lamented in the 
narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
was aot, therefore, probable that such an 
event should be long unattended with the 
u;customed profusion of posthumous anec- 
dotes and memoirs which are usually circu- 
lated immediately after the death of every 
rare and celebrated per joi.age : I had, how- 
ever, conceived no intentton of appropriating 
to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's 
writings and character, or of anticipating on 
the province of a biographer. 

" Conscious, indeed, of my own inability to 
do justice to such a subject, 1 should have 
continued wholly silent, had misrepresenta- 
tion and calumny been less industrious ; but 
a regard to truth, no less than aifection for 
the memory of a friend, must now justify 
Oiy offering to the public a few at least of 
those obserxatious which an intimate ac- 
quaintance with Burns, and the frequent 
opportunities I have ¥^r\ of observing equally 
his happy qualities ana tiis failings for several 
years past, have enabled me to communicate. 



" It will actually be Rn injustice done tt 
Burns's character, not only by future genera- 
tions and foreign countries, but even by hij 
native Scotland, and perhaps a number of hia 
contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to liis poetical 
talents only ; for the fact is, even allowing 
his great and original genius its due tribute 
of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all 
who have had the advantage of being per- 
sonally acquainted with him) was actually 
not his forte. Many others, perhaps, may 
have asceiuled to prouder heights in the 
region of Parnassus, but none certainly ef ?r 
out.shone Burns in the charms, the sorcery, 
I would almost call it, of fascinating conver- 
sation, the spontaneous eloquence of social 
argument, or the unstudied poignancy of 
bnUiant repartee ; nor was any man, 1 be- 
lieve, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
' vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments 
were perfectly correspondent to the qualifi- 
cations of liis mind — his form was manly— 
his action, energy itself — devoid iu a great 
measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of 
societies where in early life he could have no 
opportunities of mixing ; but where such was 
the irresistible power of attraction that en- 
circled liini, though his appearance and 
manners were always peculiar, he never failed 
to delight and to excel. His figure seemed 
to bear testimony to his earlier destination 
and employmeuts. It seemed rather moulded 
by nature for the rough exercises of agricul- 
ture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles 
Lettres. His features were stamped with 
the hardy character of independence, and the 
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, 
pre-eminence; the animated expressions of 
countenance were almost peculiar to himself; 
the rapid lightnings of his eye were always 
the harbingers of some flash of genius, 
whether they darted the fiery glances of 
insidted and indignant superiority, or beamed 
with the impassioned sentiment of fervent 
and impetuous affections. His voice alone, 
could improve upon the magic of his eye : 
sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, 
it alternately captivated the ear with the 
melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of 
nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of 
eathusiastic patriotism. The keenness of 
satire was, I am almost at a loss whether to 
say,his/o/-^c or his foible ; for though nature 
had endowed him with a portion of the most 
pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, 
he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of 
personal, and sometimes unfounded, animu 
sities. It was not always tha^ sp artiveuesj 







INADEQUACY OF NATIVE CRITICISM. 



of Immour, tliat 'unwary pleasantry/ which 
Sterne has depicted with tonclies so conci- 
liatory, but the darts of ridicule were 
frequently directed as tlie caprice of the 
instant suirgested, or as the altercations of 
/i;irties and of persons happened to kindle 
the restlcssriPss of his spirit into interest or 
aversion. This, however, was not invariably 
tlie case ; his wit (which is no unusual matter 
indeed) had always the start of his judijinent, 
and would lead him to the indulg^euce of 
.•aillery uniformly acute, but often accompa- 
nied with the least desire to wound. 'J'he 
auppression of an arch and fuU-ponited bon- 
mot, from a dread of otlendins? its object, the 
sa'.;e of Zurich very properly classes as a 
vu'tne onlij to be sour/ht for in the calendar of 
iaiiils ; if so. Burns must not be too severely 
dealt with for beinjc rather deticient in it. 
He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as 
anyone could do. "Twas no extravagant 
ariihmetic,' to say of him, as was said of 
Yoiick, that ' for every ten jokes he fjot a 
hundred enemies ; ' but much allowance will 
be made by a candid mind for the splenetic 
wnnnth of a spirit whom ' distress had spited 
witl\ the world.' and which, unbounded in its 
intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually 
experienced the curbs inijjosed by the way- 
wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of 
his wishes and temper was indeed checked by 
almost habitual di«ippointments, which sat 
heavy on a heart that acknowledjred the 
rulin<f pas.sion of indei)endence, without 
having ever been placed beyond the grasp of 
penury. His soul was never lanjruid or in- 
active, and his genius was extinguished only 
with the last spark of retreating life. His 
passions rendered him, according as they 
disclo.sed themselves in affection or antipathy, 
8u object of enthusiastic attachment, or of 
decided enmity ; for Ae possessed none of 
that negative insipidity of character, whose 
iove might be regarded with induference, or 
whose resentment could be considered witl? 
contempt. In this, it should seem, the 
temper of his associates took the tincti;re 
from his own; for he acknowledged in the 
universe but two classes of objects, those of 
adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the 
most uncontrollable ; and it has been fre- 
quently a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible 
of iiidiflerence, often hating where he ought 
only to have despised, he alternately opened 
his heart and poured forth the treasures of 
his understanding to such as were incapable 
of appreciating the homage ; and elevated to 
the pri\i'eges of an adversary some who 
were untpialitied in all respects for the honour 
t£ a contest ac <ljstinguished. 



"It is said that the c^.ebrated Dr. Johnson 
professed to ' love a good hater' — a leinpera- 
ment that would have singularly adf.pted hiia 
to cherish a prepossession in favour of our 
bard, who perhaps fell but little short even 
of the snrly doctor in this qiialitication, as 
long as the disposition to ill-will continued ; 
but tk e warmth of his passions was fortu- 
nately corrected by their versatility. He wa» 
seldom, indeed never, implacable in his re- 
sentments, and sometimes, it has beca 
alleged, not inviolably faithful in his engage- 
ments of friendship. Much, indeed, has 
been said about his inconstancy and caprice; 
but I am inclined to believe, that they origi- 
nated less in a levity of sentiment, than from 
an extreme impetuosity of feeling, which 
rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and 
his sensations of pique, where he fancied he 
had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, 
or unkindness, took their measure of asperity 
from the overflowings of the opjiosite senti- 
ment w Inch preceded them, and which seldom 
failed to regain its ascend aney in his bosom 
on the return of calmer reflection. He was 
can-'id and maul) in the avowal of his errors, 
aiKi his amvuil was a in})nrutioii. His native 
fierte never forsaking him f«r a moment, the 
value of a frank acknowledgment was en- 
hanced tenfold towards a generous mind, 
from its never being attended with servility. 
His mind, organised only for the stronger 
and more acute operations of the passions, 
was impracticable to the efforts of super- 
ciliousness that would have depressed it into 
humility, and equally superior to the en- 
croachments of venal suggestions that might 
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

" It has been observed that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could 
receive it tempered with less delicacy than 
might have been expected, as he seldom 
transgressed extravagantly in that way him- 
] self; wiiere he paid a compliment, it might 
indeed claim the power of intoxication, as 
approbation from him was always an honest 
tribute from the warmth and sincerity )f his 
heart. It has been sometimes repre.sinted 
by those \» i o, it should seem, had a view to 
depreciate, though they could not hope 
wholly to obscure, that native brilliancy 
which the powers of this extraordinary man 
had invariably bestowed on every thing that 
came from his lips or pen, that the history 
of the Ayrsn;re ploiighboy was an ingenious 
fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtain- 
ing the interests of the great, and enhancing 
the merits of what in reahty required no foil. 
The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shan- 
ter, and The Mountain Daisy, besides a 



ro 



IIFE OF BUKNS. 



aiimbtT of later productims, -where t'le 
maturity of his genius \vi\\ be readily traced, 
and which will be given to the public as soon 
as his friends have collected and arranged 
them, speak sufficiently for themselves ; and 
haJ ciiey fiiUen from a hand more dignified 
in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, 
they had perhaps bestowed as u.msual a 
grace there, as even in the humbler shade of 
rustic inspiration from whence they really 
sprang. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns's educa- 
tion, and to the laborious, though honourable 
StaMon of rural industry in which his parent- 
age enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of 
the south of Scotland can give testimony. 
His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, 
uow guides the ploughshare of his forefathers 
in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; and 
our poet's eldest son, a lad of nine years of 
age, whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be in some measure the inheritor of 
his father's talents as well as indigence, has 
been destined by his family to the humble 
employments of the loom. 

"That Burns had received no classical 
education, and was acquainted with the 
Greek and Roman authors only through the 
medium of translations, is a fact of which all 
who were in the habit of conversing with him 
might readily be convinced. I have, indeed, 
seldom observed him to be at a loss in con- 
Tersation, unless where the dead languages 
and their writers have been the subjects of 
discussion. When I have pressed him to tell 
me why he never applied himself to acquire 
the Latin, in particular, a language which 
his happy memory would have so soon en- 
abled hull to be master of, he used only to 
reply with a smile, that he had already 
learnt all the Latin he desired to know, and 
that was omnia viiwlt amor — ^a sentence, that 
from his writings and most favourite pur- 
suits, it should undoubtedly seem that he 
was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really 
believe his classic erudition extended little, 
if any, farther. 

'•The penchant Bums had uniformly ac- 
knowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
table, and towards the fairer and softer 
objects of nature's creation, has been the 
rallying point whence the attacks of his 
censors have been uniformly directed , and 
to these, it must be confessed, he showed 
himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend 
with alternate happiness of description, the 
fiolic spirit of the flowmg bowl, or melt the 
heart to the tender and impassioned senti- 
ments in which beauty always taught him to 
Rour forth bis own. But who would wish to 



reprove the feelings he lias consecrated %vitV 
such lively touches of nature ? And where 
is the rugged moralist who will persuade u» 
so far to 'chill the genial current of the 
soul,' as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated 
his Corinna, or that Auacreon sang beneath 
bis vine ? 

"I will not, however, undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities even of a man 
of genius, though I believe it is as certain 
that genius never was free from irregulari- 
ties, as that their absolution may, in great 
measure, be justly claimed, since it is per- 
fectly evident that the world had continued 
very stationary in its intellectual acquire- 
ments, had it never given birth to any but 
men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, 
and a due regard to the decorums of the 
world, have been so rarely seen to move 
hand in hand with genius, that some have 
gone as far as to say, though there I cannot 
wholly acquiesce, that they are even in- 
compatible; besides, the frailties that cast 
their shade over the splendour of superior 
merit, are more conspicuously glaring than 
where they are the attendants of mere me- 
diocrity. It is only on the gem we are dis- 
turbed to see the dust ; the pebble may be 
soiled, and we never regard it. The eccen- 
tric intuitions of genius too often yield the 
soul to the wild effervescence of desires, 
always unbounded, and sometimes equally 
dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to 
its own. No wonder, then, if virtue her- 
self be sometimes lost in the blaze of 
kindling animation, or that the calm moni- 
tions of reason are not invariably found 
sufficient to fetter an imagination, which 
scorns the narrow limits and restrictions 
that would chain it to the level of ordinary 
minds. The child of nature, the child ol 
sensibility, unschooled in the rigid precepts 
of philosophy, too often unable to control 
the passions which proved a source of 
frequent errors and misfortunes to him. 
Burns made his own artless apology ia 
language more impressive than all the argu- 
mentatory vindications in the world could 
do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
lineates the gradual expansion of his mind 
to the lessons of the ' tutelary muse,' who 
concludes an address to her pupil, almost 
unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry 
with these lines : — 

' I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
WiUl send thee pleasure's flevious «ray; 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

Ry passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray: 
Was liylU/fum heaven,' 






lmm<lllllllllllllllllll!lllllll!i:illllllllllllllillllllllllllllllillll!litlll!lillllllllli;iLUiail!lllllllllllllll^ 



PECULIARITIES, ETC. 



1\ 



" I have already transgressed beyond the 
boiiiuls 1 had proposed to myself ou first 
comniitting this sketch to paper, which com- 
prehends what at least I have been led to 
deem the leading features of Bums's mind 
and character. A literary critique I do not 
aim at — mine is wholly fulfilled if, in these 
pages, I have been able to delineate any of 
those strong traits that distinguished him, 
of those talents which raised him from tl^e 
plough, where he passed the bleak morning 
of his life, weaving his rude WTeaths of 
poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang 
srouiul his cottage, to that enviable eminence ! 
of literary fame, where Scotland will long 
cherish his memory with delight and grati- 
tude ; and proudly remember that, beneath 
her cold sky, a genius was ripened, without 
care or culture, that would have done honour 
to climes more favourable to those luxuri- 
ances — that warmth of colouring and fancy 
in which he so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed 
in the public prints, ever since the idea of 
sending tliis sketch to some one of them 
was formed, I find private animosities have 
not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet 
exhausted all her shafts. I still trust, how- 
ever, that honest fame will be permanently 
affixed to Burns's character, which I think it 
wdl be found he has merited, by the candid 
and impartial among his countrymen. And 
where a recollection of the imprudences that 
sullied his brighter qualifications interpose, 
let the imperfection of all human excellence 
be remembered at the same time, leaving 
those inconsistencies, which alternately ex- 
alted his nature into the seraph, and sank it 
again into the man, to the tribunal which 
zlone can investigate the labyrinths of the 
human heart — 

• Where they alike in trembling hope repose, 
— The bosom of his father and his God.' 

Gray's Elegy. 
" Annandale, August 7, 1796." 

After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that 
some mquiry shoidd be made into his 
literary merits. It will not, however, be 
necessary to enter very minutely into this 
investigation. If fiction be, as some sup- 
pose, the sold of poetry, no one had ever 
less pretensions to the name of poet than 
Burns. Though he has displayed great 
powers of imagination, yet the subjects on 
which he has \\Titten are seldom, if ever, 
imaginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, 
may be considered as the etfusions of his 
sensibility, and the transcript of lis own 
musiugi ou the real iucideuts oi his tumble 

8 



life. If we add, that they also contain most 
happy delineations of the characters, man- 
ners, and scenery, that presented themselves 
to his observation, we shall include almost 
all the subjects of his muse. His writings 
may, therefore, be regarded as affording a 
great part of the data on which our account 
of his personal character has been founded ; 
and most of the observation.s we ha\'e ap- 
plied to the man, are apphcable, with little 
variation, to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of hia 
original station hi life, was not more evident 
on his form and manners, than on his 
poetical productions. The incidents which 
form the subjects of his poems, though some 
of them highly interesting, and susceptible 
of poetical imagery, are incidents in the life 
of a peasant who takes no pains to disguise 
the lowliness of his condition, or to throw 
into shade the circumstancci attending it, 
which more feeble or more artificial minds 
would have endeavoured to conceal. The 
same rudeness and inattention appears ia 
the formation of his rhymes, which are 
frequently incorrect, while the measure ia 
which many of the poems are written has 
little of the pomp or harmony of modern 
versification, and is, indeed, to an English 
ear strange and uncouth. The greater part 
of his earlier poems are written in the dialect 
of his country, which is obscure, if not 
unintelligible, to Englishmen ; ar d which, 
though it still adheres more or less to the 
speech of almost every Scotsman, all the 
polite and the ambitious are now endeavour- 
ing to banish from their tongues as well aa 
their wTitings. The use of it in composition 
naturally, therefore, calls up ideas of vul- 
garity in the mind. These singularities are 
increased by the character of the poet, who 
dehghts to express himself with a simplicity 
that approaches to nakedness, and with an 
unmeasured energy that often alarms deli- 
cacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, 
in approaching him, the first impression is, 
perhaps, repidsive : there is an air of coarse- 
ness about him, which is ditticultly recon- 
ciled with our estabhshed notions of poetical 
excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better 
acquainted with the poet, the effects of his 
peculiarities lessen. He perceives in liia 
poems, even on the lowest subjects, expres- 
sions of sentiment, and delineations of 
manners, which are highly interesting. The 
scenery he describes is evidently taken from 
real life ; the characters he inl voduces, and 
the incidents he relates, have the impression 
of nature and truth. Hia humour, tbrjUj^U 



72 



LD E OF BULNSL 



wild and unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, 
and is sometimes heightened iu its effects by 
the introduction of emotion? of tenderness, 
with which genuine humour so happily 
unites. Nor is this the extent of his power. 
Tlie reader, as he examines farther, discovers 
that the poet is not confined to the descrip- 
ti\ e, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is 
found, as occasion offers, to rise with ease 
into the terril>le and the sublime. Every- 
wiiere he appears devoid of artifice, per- 
forming what he attempts with little appa- 
rent effort, and impressing on the offspring 
of his fancy the stamp of Ids understanding. 
The reader, capable of forming a just esti- 
mate of poetical talents, discovers in these 
circumstances marks of uncommon genius, 
and is willing to investigate more minutely 
its nature and its claims to originality. This 
last point we shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advants^s of a 
classical education, or of any degree of ac- 
quaintance with the Greek or Roman writers 
in their original dress, has appeared in the 
history of his life. He acquired, indeed, 
some knowledge of the French language, 
but it does not appear that he was e\er much 
conversant in French literature, nor is there 
any evidence of his having derived any of 
his poetical stores from that source. AV'ith 
the English classics he became well ac- 
quainted in the course of his life, and the 
effect of this acquaintance are obserx able in 
his later productions ; but the character and 
styie of his poetry were formed very early, 
and the model which he followed, in as far 
as he can be said to have had one, is to be 
sought for in the works of the poets who 
have written in the Scottish dialect — in the 
works of such of them more especially, as 
are familiiir to the peasantry of Scotland. 
S(mie observations on these may form a 
proper introduction to a more particular 
examination of the poetry of Burns. The 
studies of the eihtor in this direction are 
indeed very recent and very imperfect. It 
would have been imprudent for him to have 
entered on this subject at all. but for the 
kindness of Mr. Kamsay of Ochtertyre, 
whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, 
and to whom the reader must ascribe 
whatever is of any value in the following 
imperfect sketch of literary compositions iu 
the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, 
and which does not seem to be satisfactorily 
explained, that in the thirteenth century, 
tlie language of the two British nations, if 
at all different, differed only in dialect, the 
Gaelic in the one, like the M'elsh and Ar- 



moric in the other, being confined to tli« 
mountainous districts. The English under 
the Edwards, and the Scots under Wallac« 
and Bruce, spoke the same language. We 
may observe also, that iu Scotland, the his- 
tory of poetry ascends to a period nearly as 
remote as in England. Barber, and Blind 
Harry, James the First, Dunbar, Douglas, 
and Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, 
fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were coeval 
with the fathers of poetry in England ; aud, 
»:> the opinion of Mr. Warton, not inferior 
to them in genius or in composition. Though 
the language of the two countries gradually 
deviated from each other during this period, 
yet the difference on the whole was not con- 
siderable ; not perhaps, greater thai, between 
the different dialects of the different parts cl 
England in our own time. 

At the death of James V. in 1542, the 
language of Scotland vv«i3 i;i a flourishiiij 
con(Ution, wanting only writers in prost 
eipial to those in verse. Two circumstances, 
propitious on the whole, operated to prevent 
this. The first was the passion of the Scots 
for composition iu Latin, and the second, 
the accession of James VI. to the Englisli 
throne. It may easily be imagined, that if 
Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, 
even in part, to the cidtivation of his native 
tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions iii 
that language which might have incited othei 
men of genius to have followed his ex- 
ample (1:^1), and given duration to the laii. 
guage itself. The union of the two crowua 
in the person of James, overthrew idl rea- 
sonable expectation of this kind. That 
monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer suffer himself to be ad- 
dressed in the rude dialect in which the 
Scottish clergy had so often insulted his 
dignity. He encouraged Latin or I'^nglish 
only, both of which he prided himself ou 
WTiting wi:h purity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, 
but spoke with a Scottish idiom and iiitona- 
tioii to the last. Scotsmen of talents de- 
clined writing in their native language, which 
they knew was not acceptable to their 
learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a 
time when national prejudice and enmity 
prevailed to a great degree, they disdained 
to study the niceties of the English tongue, 
though of so much easier acquisition than 
a dead language. Lord Stirling, and Drum, 
mond of llawthornden, the oidy Scotsmen 
who wrote poetry in those times, were ex- 
ceptions. Tliey studied the language ol 
England, and composed ia it with precis ioa 



•Vvj 



V^9 



/- 



^^ 




LITERATmiE OF SCOTLAND. 



75 



tnd elegance. They were, however, tht last 
of tlieir countrymen who deserved to be 
considered as poets in that century. The 
muses of Scotland sank into silence, and did 
not again raise their voices for a period of 
eijjhty years. 

To what causes are we to Attribute this 
extreme depression among a people compara- 
tively learned, enterprising, and ingenious ? 
Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of the 
Covenanters, or to the tyranny of the house 
of Stuart after their restoration to the 
throne ? Doubtless these causes operated, 
but they seem unequal to account for the 
effect. In England, similar distractions and 
oppression took place, yet poetry flourished 
there in a remarkable degree. Diy^'jig this 
period, Cowley, and Waller, and'.'"/'yden, 
sang, and Milton raised his strain of unpa- 
ralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
mentioned, another must be added, in 
accounting for the torpor of Scottish litera- 
ture — the want of a proper vehicle for men 
of genius to employ. I'he civil wars had 
frightened away the Latin Muses, and no 
standard had been established of the Scottish 
tongue, Avliich was deviating still farther 
from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of Uterature in Scotland may 
be dated from the establishment of the 
Union, or rather from the extinction of the 
rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally 
incorporated, it was clearly seen that their 
tongues must be in the end incorporate also; 
or rather, indeed, that the Scottish language 
must degenerate into a provincial idiom, to 
be avoided by those who would aim at dis- 
tinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the 
united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius 
appeared, who studied the English classics, 
and imitated the'.r beauties, in the same 
manner as they studied the classics of Greece 
and Korae They had admirable models of 
coiiiposition lately presented to them by the 
writers of the reign of tlueen Anne ; par- 
ticularly in the periodical papers published 
bv Steele, Addison, and their associated 
Ineiids, which circulated widely through 
Scotland, and diffused everywhere a taste 
Tor purity of style and sentiment, and for 
ciitical disquisition. At length, the Scottish 
writers succeeded in English composition, 
and an union was formed of the literary 
talents, as well as of the legislatures of the 
two nations. On this occasion the poets 
took the lead. While Henry Home (122), 
Dr. \\ allace, an«l their learned associates, 
were only laying in their intellectu il stores, 
■nd studying lo clear themselvei of their 



Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallett, aid 
Hamilton of Bangour, had made their ap- 
pearance before the public, and been enrolled 
on the hst of English poets. The vmtera 
in prose followed^a numerous and powerful 
baud — and poured their ample stores into 
the general stream of British literature. 
Scotland possessed her four universities be- 
fore the accession of James to the Enf,Ush 
throne. Immediately before the Union, she 
acquired her parochial schools. These esta- 
blishments combining happily together, made 
the elements of knowledge of easy acquisi- 
tion, and presented a direct path by wiiich 
the ardent student might be carried along 
into the recesses of science or learning. As 
civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice 
gradually died away, a wider field was opened 
to literary ambition, and the influence of the 
Scottish institutions for instruction, on the 
productions of the press, became more and 
more apparent. 

It seems, indeed, probable, that the eata- 
bKshmeut of the parochial schools produced 
effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, 
which have not hitherto been suspected, and 
which, though less splendid in their nature, 
are not, however, to be regarded as tri\ial, 
whether we consider the happiness or the 
morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 
sessed a peculiar and an interesting species 
of music, which being banished from the 
plains by the successive invasions of the 
Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved 
with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland 
and ill the mountains of Scotland and "Wales. 
The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh 
music, dift'er indeed from each other, but the 
difference may be considered as in dialect 
only, and pi-obably produced by the influence 
of time, and like tlie different dialects o( 
their common language. If this conjecture 
be true, the Scottish music must be more 
immediately of a Highland origin, and the 
Lowland tunes, though now of a character 
somewhat distinct, must have descended 
from the mountains in remote ages. "\Miat- 
ever credit may be given to conjectures, 
evidently involved in great uncertainty, there 
can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry 
have been long in possession of a number of 
songs and ballads composed in their native 
dialect, and sung to their nati\e music. 
The subjects of these compositions were 
such as most interested the simple inhabi- 
tants, and ui the succession of time varied 
probably as the condition of society varied. 
During the separation aid the hostility of 




-i<i) 







74 



LIFE OF BTJKISS. 



the two nations these songs and hallads, as 
far as our iinpeifect docunients enable us to 
judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as the 
riuutis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlaw. 
After the union of the two crowns, when a 
certain degree of peace and of tranquillity 
took place, the rural muse of Scotland 
breathed in softer accents. " In the want 
of real evidence respecting the history of 
our songs," says Mr. Ranisay of Ochtertyre, 
" recourse may be had to conjecture. One 
woidd be disposed to thhik, that the most 
beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed 
with new words after the union of the 
crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, 
who had formerly been warriors from choice, 
and husbandmen from necessity, either 
quitted the country, or were transformed 
into real shepherds, easy in their circum- 
stances, and satisfied with their lot. Some 
sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which 
they are celebrated by Froissart, remained, 
sufficient to inspire elevation of sentiment 
and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 
familiarity and kindness which had long 
subsisted between the gentry and the pea- 
santry, could not all at once be obliterated, 
and this connexion tended to sweeten rural 
life. Iv this state of innocence, ease, and 
tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and 
music woidd still maintain its gromid, though 
it would naturally assume a form congenial 
to the more peaceful state of society. The 
minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to 
rouse the borderers like the trumpet's sound, 
had been, by an order of the legislature (in 
1579), classed with rogues and vagabonds, 
and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and 
his disciples influenced the Scottish parha- 
ment, but contended in vain with her rural 
muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably 
on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its 
tributary streams, one or more original 
geniuses may have arisen, who were destined 
to give a new turn to the taste of their 
countrymen. They would see that the 
events and pursuits which chequer private 
liii; were the proper subjects for popular 
poetry. Love, which had formerly held a 
divided sway with glory and ambition, be- 
came now the master passion of the soul. 
To portray in lively and delicate colours, 
though with a hasty hand, the hopes and 
fears that agitate the breast of the love-sick 
swain, or forlorn maiden, affords ample scope 
to the rural poet Love-songs of which 
Tibidlus liimself would not have been 
ash-imed, might be composed by an unedu- 
cated rustic with a slight tiiicture of letters; 
or if in these songs the character of the 



rustic be sometimes assumed, the truth o| 
character, and the language < t nature, are 
preserved. With imaft'ected simplicity and 
tendernt ss, topics are urged most likely to 
soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, 
or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such as 
are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the deep and 
settled gloom which characterises the sweet- 
est of the Highland lueniiis, or vocal airs. 
Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of 
them are lively and humorous, and some 
appear to us coarse ani indelicate. They 
seem, however, geniiine descriptions of the 
manners of an energetic and sequestered 
people in their hours of mirth and festivity, 
though in their portraits some objects are 
brought into open view, which more fasti- 
dious painters would have thrown into 
shade. 

As those rural poets sang for amusement, 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded 
a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the works of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to wTiting, but 
treasured up in the memory of their friends 
and neighbours. Neither known to the 
learned nor patronised by the great, these 
rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and 
by a strange fatality, their story, and even 
their very names, have been forgotten. (123) 
^Tien projier models for pastoral songs were 
produced, there would be no want of imita- 
tors. To succeed in this species of compo- 
sition, soundness of understanding, and 
sensibility of heart, were more requisite than 
flights of imagination or pomp of numbers 
Great changes have certainly taken place in 
Scottish song-writing, though we cannot 
trace the steps of this change ; and few of 
the pieces admired in Queen JMary's time 
are now to be discovered in modern collec- 
tions. It is possible, though not probable, 
that the music may have remained nearly 
the same, though the words to the tunes 
were entirely new-modelled." (I24J 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. 
It cannot, however, be presumed, that the 
state of ease and tranquillity described by 
Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scottish 
peasantry immediately on the union of the 
crowns, or indeed during the greater part of 
the seventeenth century. The Scottish 
nation, through all its ranks, was deeply 
agitated by the civil wars, and the religious 
persecutions which succeeded each other in 
that disastrous period ; it was not till after 
the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent 
establishment of their beloved form of 
church government, that the peasantry of 



COMPARISON OF SCOTTISH POETS. 



7fl 



Ihe Lowlancls enjoyed comparative repose ; 
and it is since that period that a great 
anniber of tlie most admired Scottish songs 
ha\e been prodnced, though tlie tunes to 
wliich they are sung are in general of much 
greater antiipiity. It .i* not unreasonable to 
suppose thar the peace and security derived 
from tlie Revolution and the Union, pro- 
duced a favourable change on the rustic 
poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be 
doubted, that the institution of parish 
schools in 1696, by which a certain degree 
of instruction was diffused uuiversaEy among 
the peasantry, contributed to this happy 
effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Eamsay, 
the Scottish Theocritus. He was born on 
the high mountains that divide Clydesdale 
and Annandale, in a small hamlet by the 
banks of Glengonar, a stream which descends 
into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet 
are still shown to the inquiring traveller. 
He was the son of a peasant, and probably 
received such instruction as his parish-school 
bestowed, and the poverty of his parents ad- 
mitted. (125) Ramsay made his appearance 
in Edinburgh in the beginning of the present 
century, in the humble character of an ap- 
prentice to a barber, or peruke-maker ; he 
was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. 
By degrees he acquired notice for his social 
disposition, and his talent for the composi- 
tion of verses in the Scottish idiom; and, 
changing his profession for that of a book- 
seller, he became intimate mth many of the 
literary, as well as the gay and fashionable 
characters of his time. (126) Having pub- 
lished a volume of poems of his own in 
17-1, which was favourably received, he 
undertook to make a collection (,f ancient 
Scottish poems, under the title of The Ever- 
green, and was afterwards encouraged to 
present to the world a collection of Scottish 
songs. " From what sources he procured 
them," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
" whether from tradition or manuscript, is 
uncertain. As in the Evergreen, he made 
some rash attempts to improve on the origi- 
nals of his ancient poems, he probably used 
still greater freedom with the songs and 
ballads. The truth cannot, however, be 
known on this point, till manuscripts of the 
songs printed by him more ancient than the 
present century, shall be produced, or access 
be obtained to his own papers, if they are 
still in existence. To several tunes which 
either wanted words, or had words that 
were improper or imperfect, he, or his 
friends, adapted verses worthy of the melo- 
dies they aoiojapaniedj worthy indeed of the 

8* 



golden age. These verses wf re perfectly iu- 
teliigible to every rustic, yet justly adiuired 
by persons of taste, who regarded them as 
the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. 
In some respects, Ramsay had advantagea 
not possessed by poets writing in the Scot- 
tish dialect iu our days. Songs m the dialect 
of Cumberland or Lancashire could never be 
popular, because these dialects have never 
been spoken by persons of fashion. But 
till the middle of the present century, every 
Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, 
spoke a truly Doric language. It is true, 
the English moraUsts and poets were by 
this time read by every person of condition, 
and considered as the standards for polite 
composition. But as national prejudices 
were still strong, the busy, the learned, the 
gay, and the fair, continued to speak their 
native dialect, and that with an elegance 
and poignancy, of which Scotsmen of the 
present day can have no just notion. I am 
old enough to have conversed wth jNIr. 
Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of 
fashion, who sur\ived all the members of 
the Union Parliament, in wliich he had a 
seat. His pronunciation and phraseology 
differed as much from the common dialect, 
as the language of St. James's from that of 
Thames Street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues of 
the two sister-kingdoms would indeed have 
differed hke the Castilian and Portuguese ; 
but each would have had its own classics, 
not iu a single branch, but in the whole 
circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them 
attempted to write poetry iu his manner. 
Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily in making tender 
sonnets to favourite tmies in compliment to 
their mistresses, and, transforr>-:,ig them- 
selves into impassioned sh'»p'iierds, caught 
the language of the characters they assumed. 
Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawford 
of Auchinames wrote the modern song of 
Tweed Side (127), which has been so much 
admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the 
first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
wrote English elegantly, composed, in the 
character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful 
song, beginning, ' My sheep J neglected, I 
lost my sheep-hook,' on the marriage of 
his mistress. Miss Forbes, with Ronald 
Crawford. And about twelve years after- 
wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the 
ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of 
the Forest (128), and supposed to allude to 




>Vi/) 







c^'i^K?' 




76 



LIFE OF BUEXS. 



the battle of Flowden. In 3>pite of the 
double rhyme, it is a sweet, and, though 
in some parts allegorical, a natural expres- 
sion of national sorrow The more modern 
words to the same tuue, beginning, ' I have 
seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,' were 
written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a 
woman of great wit, who outlived all the 
first group of literati of the present century, 
all of whom were very fond of her. (129) I 
was delighted with her company, though, 
when I saw her, she was very old. Much 
did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
Bongs produced in the earlier part of the 
present century, may be mentioned the 
ballad of Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw ; 
the ballad of William and JNIargaret ; and 
the song entitled the Birks of Endermay, 
by Mallett ; the love-song, beginning. " For 
ever fortune, wilt thou prove," produced by 
the youtliful muse of Thomson; and the 
exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of 
Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to 
the Union, a very general taste seems to 
have prevailed for the national songs and 
music. " For many years," says ]\Ir. Ram- 
say, "the singing of songs was the great 
delight of the higher and middle order of 
the people, as well as of the peasantry ; 
and though a taste for Italian music has 
interfered with this amusement, it is still 
very prevalent. Between forty and fifty 
years ago, the common people were not only 
exceedingly fond of songs and ballads, but 
of metrical history. Often have I, in my 
cheerful morn of youth, listened to them 
with delight, when reading or reciting the 
exploits of Wallace and Bruce against 'he 
southrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call 
Blind Harry their bible, he being their great 
favourite next to the Scriptures. When, 
therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first 
emotions of genius, he wanted not models 
$ui g-meris. But though the seeds of 
poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand 
amon^ the Scottish peasantry, the product 
■was probably lii;e that of pears and apples — 
of a thousand that spring up, nine hundred 
and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on 
edge ; forty-five or more are passaole and 
useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. 
Allan Ilamsay and Burns are wildings of 
this last description. They had the ex- 
ample of the eliler Scottish poets ; they were 
not without the aid of tlw best English 
writers ; and, what was sti'J of more im- 
portance, they were no strangers to the 
book of nature, and to the bok of God." 



"From this general view, it is apparent 
that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in 
a great measure the reviver of the rural 
poetry of his country. His collection of 
ancient Scottish poems, under the name of 
The Evergreen, his collection of Scottish 
songs, and his own poems, the principal oi 
which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been 
universally read among the peasantry of his 
country, and have in some degree superseded 
the adventures of Bruce and \>'allace, u 
recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. 
Burns was well acquainted with all these. 
He had also before him the poems of 
Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which 
have been produced in our own times, and 
of which it will be necessary to give a short 
account. 

" Fergusson was born of parents who had 
it in their power to procure him a liberal 
education — a circumstance, however, which 
in Scotland implies no very high rank in 
society. From a well-written and appa- 
rently authentic account of his life (130), 
we learn that he spent six years at the 
schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and 
several years at the universities of Edin- 
burgh and St. Andrews. It appears that 
he was at one time destined for the Scottish 
church ; but, as he advanced towards man- 
hood, he renounced that intention, and 
at Edinburgh entered the otiice of a writer 
to the signet — a title which designates a 
separate and higher order of Scottish at- 
tomies. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, 
a warm and generous heart, and talenta 
for society of the most attractive kind. 
To such a man no situation could be 
more dangerous than that in which he was 
placed. The excesses into which he was led 
impaired his feeble constitution, and he sank 
under them in the month of October, 1774 
in his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year. 
Burns was not acquainted with the poems 
of this youthfid genius when he himself 
began, to write poetry ; and when he first 
saw them, he had renounced the musses. 
But while he resided in the town of Irvine 
meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, he 
informs us that he " strung his lyre anew with 
emulating vigour." Touched by the sympa- 
thy originating in kindred genius, and in the 
forebodings of similar fortune. Burns re- 
garded Fergusson with a partial and aa 
aS'ectionate admiration. Over his grave ha 
erected a monument, as has already been 
mentioned ; and his poems he lias, in several 
instances, made the subjects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems 
known to B^rns, thiise who Sirc acauaintcd 



SCOTTISH LITERATURE. 



•n 



ivitli tliera will see that they are cliiefly 
Immoroiis ur pathetic, and under one or 
Otlifi of tliese descriptions most of his own 
poems will class. I^et us compare him with 
Lis predecensors under each of these points 
cf view, and close our examination with a 
few general obser\ ations. 

It has frequently been observed, that 
Scotland has produced, comparatively speak- 
ing, few writers who have excelled in humour. 
But this observation is true oidy when ap- 
plied to those who have continued to ri;side 
in tiieir o\\ii country, and have confined 
themselves to composition in pure Eni'lish; 
an<l, in these circumstances, it admits of an 
easy explanation. The Scottish poets who 
have written in the dialect of Scotlami, have 
been at all times remarkable for dwelling on 
subjects of humour, in which, indeed, 'many 
of them have excelled. It would be ezsy to 
show, that the dialect of Scotland having 
become provincial, is now scarcely suiJed to 
the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was written by James I. of 
Scotland (131), this accomplished monarch, 
■who had received an English education 
under the direction of Henry IV., and who 
bore arms under his gallant successor, gave 
the model on which the greater ji«rt of the 
humorous productions of the rustic muse of 
Scotland has been formed. Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay 
somewhat modernised in the orthography, 
»nd two cantos w<^re added by hira, in which 
he attenipts to carry on the design. Hence 
the poem of Knig James is usually printed 
in Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, 
in the first canto, a rustic dance, and after- 
wards a contention in archery, ending in an 
Bffray. Ramsay relates the restoration of 
concord, and the renewal of the rural sports, 
with the humours of a country wedding. 
Though each of the poets describes the 
manners of his respective age, yet in the 
wliole piece there is a very sufficient unifor- 
mity — a striking proof of the identity of 
character in the Scottish peasantry at the 
t« o periods, distant from each other three 
hundred years. It is an honourable dis- 
tixictiou to this body of men, that their 
character and manners, very little embel- 
lished, have been found to be susceptible of 
en amusing and interesting species of poetry; 
and it must ajipear not a little curious, that 
the single, nation of modern Europe which 
possesses an original rural poetry, should 
have received the model, followed by their 
rustic bards, from the monarch on the 
tlirjue. 



The tw additions! cantos to Christii Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, th lugh 
objectionable in point of delicacy, are among 
the happiest of his productions. His chief 
excellence, indeed, lay in the description of 
rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for 
he did not possess any very high powers 
either of imagination or of understanding. 
He was well acquainted with the peasantry 
of Scotland, their lives and opinions. Tho 
subject was in a great measure new ; liia 
talents were equal to the subject ; and Re 
has shown that it may be happily adapted to 
pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, 
the characters are delineations from nature, 
the descriptive parts are in the genuine style 
of beautiful simplicity, the passions and 
affections of rural life are finely pourtrayed, 
and the heart is pleasingly interested in the 
happiness that is bestowed on innocence am.' 
virtue. Through»ut the whole there is ai 
air of reality which the most careless reade« 
cannot but perceive; and, in fact, no poen 
ever perhaps acquired so high a reputation, 
in which truth received so little erabellisb 
ment from the imagination. In his pastoral 
songs, and in his rural tales, Ramsay appeaif 
to less advantage indeed, but still with cor 
siderable attraction. The story of the i\Ion> 
and the Miller's Wife, though soraewha* 
licentious, may rank with the happiest pro- 
ductions of Prior, or La Fontaine. But when 
he attempts subjects from higher life, ant 
aims at pure English composition, he is 
feeble and uninteresting, and seldom ever 
reaches mediocrity. Neither are his familiar 
epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect 
entitled to much approbation. Thongt 
Fergusson had higher powers of imagination 
than Ramsay, his genius was not of the 
highest order ; nor did his learning, which 
was considerabli!, improve his genius. His 
poems \\Titten in pure English, in which he 
often follows classical models, though supe- 
rior to the English poems of Ramsay, seldi,im 
rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- 
posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
sflccessful. He was in general, however, 
less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of 
his muse. As he spent the greater part of 
his life in Edinbu-gh, and wrote for hia 
amusement in the intervals of business or 
dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly 
feunded on the iacidents of a town life, 
which, though they are susceptible if iiaraour, 
do not admit of those delineations of scenery 
and manners, which vivify the rivral poetry 
of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse 
the fancy and interest the heart. The 
town-eclogues of Ferguison, if we may so 



=''^llllllllllllllinillll!l|il{llll!lllllllllHIIIIIIIIIIIHiiiliHallillllllllllllHllllllllliliillIilllllllHllllllllinn 



78 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



denominate them, are, however, faithful to 
Datuie, and often distinguished by a very 
happy vein of humour. lUs poems entitled 
The Daft Days, The King's Birth-day in 
Edinburgh, Leith Races, and the Hallow 
Fair, will justify this character. In these, 
particuiarly in the last, he imitated Christit 
Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done 
before him. His Address to the Tron Kirk 
Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, which 
Burns has scarcely excelled. In appreciating 
the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be 
recollected, that his poems are the careless 
ettusions of an irregular though amiable 
young man, who wfote for the periodical 
papers of the day, and who died in early 
youth. Had his life been prolonged under 
happier circumstances of fortune, he would 
probably have risen to much higher reputa- 
tion. He might have excelled in rural poetry ; 
for though his professed pastorals, on the 
established Sicilian model, are stale and 
uninteresting. The Farmer's Ingle (132), 
which may be considered as a Scottish pas- 
toral, is the happiest of all his productions, 
and certainly was the prototype of the Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and more 
especially Burns, have shown that the cha- 
racter and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland of the present times, are as well 
adapted to poetry as in the days of Ramsay, 
or of the author of Christia Kirk of the 
Grene. 

The humour of Bums is of a richer vein 
than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of 
whom, as he himself uiforms us, he had 
"frequently in his eye, but rather with a 
view to kindle at their flame, than to servile 
imitation." His descriptive powers, whether 
the objects on which they are employed be 
comic or serious, animate or inanimate, are 
of the highest order. A superiority of 
this kind is essential to every species of 
poetical excellence. In one of his earlier 
poems, his plan seems to be to inculcate 
« le^on of contentment on the lower 
classes of society, by showing that their 
superiors are neither much better nor 
happier than themselves ; and this he 
chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue 
between two dogs. He introduces this 
dialogue by an account of the persons and 
characters of the speakers. The tirst, whom 
he. has named CiEsar, is a dog of con- 
dition : — 

•* His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 

Show'd him the gentleman andjcholar." 

tligli-bred though he is, he is, however, full 
sf coudesceusiou : — 



" At kirk or rr.arket, mill r,r smirWie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er so duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see hiin, 
Aiidstroan'l ongtanes aiiil hillocks wi'Aim* 

The other, Luath, i» « " ploughman's co?\k>,* 
K.t a cur o£ ii f^oi hJ5£t Mi& a sound uD- 
deistaridj'xf' 

" His honest, sensit, tet!«'2'L. face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
Sis gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Huny o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely deli- 
neated. Their gambols before they sit dowa 
tc EiorsLlise ire dfje'Tl'ed wjtb an equal de- 
gree of happiness ; and through the whole 
dialogue, the character, as well as the dif- 
ferent condition of the two speakers, is kept 
in view. The speech of Luath, in which ho 
enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives 
the following account of their merriment on 
the tirst day of the year : — 
" That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
And sheds a heart-inspiriag steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshinmill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The canty auld folks craeUin crouse, 
The young anes raiitin thro' the house — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
Hiat I Jar joy hue barkit «i;t' them." 

Of all the animals who have moralised on 
human affairs since the diys of jEsop, the 
dog seems best entitled to this privilege, as 
well fi-om his superior sagacity as from his 
being, more than any other, the friend and 
associate of man. "rhe dogs of Burns, ex- 
cepting in their talent for moralising, are 
downright dogs ; and not like the horses of 
Swift, or the Hind j\nd Panther of Dryden, 
men in the shape of brutes. It is tliis cir- 
cumstance that heightens the humour of the 
dialogue. The " twa dogs" are constantly 
kept before our eyes, and the contrast be- 
tween tlieir form and character as dogs, and 
the sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
the humour, and deepens the impression of 
the poet's satire. Though in this poem the 
chief excellence may be considered as hu- 
mour, yet great talents ere displayed in its 
composition; the happieft powers of de- 
scription, and the deepest insight into the 
human heart. (133) It is seldom, however, 
that the humour of Burns appears in so 
simple a form. The liveliness of his sensi- 
bility frequently impels liim to introduce 
into subjects of humour emotions of ten- 
derness or of pity ;' ajid, where occEwion 
admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert 




Illlllllllinillll!llllllll!lllllllll!i:illil!il!lll!llllllli: 



BCOTTISH UTEEATURE. 



79 



the hiwlier powera of imagination. In such 
inr-tatices, he leaves the society of Ramsay 
and of Ferg^usson, and associates himself 
with the masters of English poetry, whose 
lansrnage he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, 
examples may be found in The Death and 
living Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld 
Farmer's New-Year's Morning Salutation 
to his Mare Maggie, and in many of his 
other poems. The praise of whisky is a 
favourite subject with Burns. To this he 
dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After 
mentioning its cheering influence in a va- 
riety of situations he de.>cribes, with singular 
liveliness and power of fancy, its stimulating 
effects on the blacksmith working at his 
forge : — 

" Nae mercy, then, for airn and steel ; 
The brawnie, bunie, ploua;man chisl, 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' ^turdy wheel, 

The strons? fore-hammer. 
Till block and studdie riu"- and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 

On another occasion (134), choosing to 
exalt whisky above wine, he introduces a 
comparison between the natives of more 
genial climes, to whom the vine furnishes 
their beverage, and his own countrjanen who 
drink the spirit of malt. The description of 
the Scotsman is h amorous : — 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his chwk a Highland aiU (135), 
Say such is royal Gcorsre's will. 

And there's the foe, 
He has nao thought but how to kill 
Tvva at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the 
imagination of the poet. He goes on 
thus : — 

" Nae cauld, fainUtaearted doublings teaze 

him ; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him, 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

And when he fa's, 
His latest tlrausrht o' breathing lea'es him 
In faint huzzas." 
Again, however, he sinks into humour, 
and concludes the poem with the following 
most laughable but most irreverent apos- 
Irephe : — • 
. " Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Tho' whyles ye moistify j'our leather, 
Till wharc ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and whiskcij gang thegither — 

Tak ati' your dram ! " 

Of this union of humour with the higher 

powers of imagination, instances may be 

found in the poer.i entitled Death and Dr. 

Hornbook, aud in almost every stanza of 



the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest 
of his productions. After r.^proaching this 
terrible being with all his " doings" and 
misdeeds, in the course of which he passes 
through a series of Scottish superstitious. 
and rises at times into a high strain of 
poetry, he concludes this address, delivered 
in a tone of great familiarity, not altogether 
unmixed with apprehension, in the following 
words : — 

"But, fare-ye-well, auld Nickie-ben! 

Oh wad you tak a thought and men' I 

Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 
Sill hae a stake — 

I'm wae to think upon yon den 

E'en for your sake ! *• 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say wliich 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway and the Plainstones (136) of 
Edinburgh. This probably suggested to 
Burns his dialogue between the Old and 
the New Bridge over tha river Ayr. (137) 
The nature of such subjects requires that 
they shall be treated humorously, and Fer- 
gusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
Though the Causeway and the Plainstones 
talk together, no attempt is made to per- 
sonify the speakers. A "cadie" (138) heard 
the conversation, and reported it to the 
poet. 

In the dialogues between the Brigs of 
Ayr, Burns himself is the auditor, and the 
time and occasion on which it occurred is 
related with great circumstantiality. The 
poet, "pressed by care," or "inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
and wandered out alone in the darkness and 
solitude of a winter-night, to the mouth of 
the river, where the stillness was interrupted 
only by the rushing sound of the influx of 
the tide. It was after midnight. The duu- 
geon-clock (139) had struck two, and the 
sound had been repeated by Wallace Tower. 
(140) All else was hushed. The moon 
shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept gently crusting, o'er the gliltermg 
stream." 

In this situation the listening bard hears the 
"clanging sugh" of wings moving through 
the air, and speedily he perceives two beings 
reared, the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Bridge, whose form and attire he de- 
scribes, and whose conversation with each 
other he rehearses. These genii enter into 
a comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is 
usual between the old and young, cumpors 



80 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



morlern characters and ir.ar.ners vnih those 
of ]iast tiuics. They difler, as may he ex- 
pected, and taunt and scold each other in 
broad Scotch. This conversation, which is 
certainly htmiorous, may be considered as 
the proper business of the poem. As tlie 
debate runs hiirh, and threatens serious con- 
sequences, all at once it is interrupted by s 
new scene of wonders : — 

• ■ " all before their sight 

A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glittei-ing stream they featly 
danc'd ; [glanc'd ; 

Bright to the moon their various dresses 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; 
\Vhile arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-enobliner Bards heroic ditties sung." 
» '• > « 

" The Genius of the Stream in front appears — 
A venerable chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other alleg-orical 
beings, among wliom are the four seasons. 
Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Cou- 
rage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ; 
Learning and wealth in equal measures trode, 
From smiiile Catrine,. their long-lf.y'd abode ; 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown"d with a hazel- 
wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 
kind'ling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it 
is, displays various and powerful talents, and 
may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. 
In particular, it affords a striking instance of 
his being carried beyond liis original purpose 
by the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstones and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the 
dilTerent persons who walked upon them. 
Burns probably conceived, that by a dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge, he might 
form a humorous contrast between ancient 
and modern manners in the town of Ayr. 
Such a dialogue could only be supposed to 
pass in the stillness of night ; and this led 
our poet into a description of a midnight 
scene, which excited in a high degree the 
powers of his imagination. During the 
whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
fitncy, and at length it suggests to him a 
fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams 
of the morn, by which the wrath of the 
Gtaiii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poen> are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 



pleases ; and we have onl^ to regret that tb( 
poet did not bestow a littl« pains in making 
the figures more correct, and in smoothing 
the versification. 

The epistles of Bums, in which may ba 
included liis Dedication to G. H., Esq., dis- 
cover, like his other writings, the powers of 
a superior understanding. They display 
deep insight into human nature, a gay and 
happy strain of reflection, great independ- 
ence of sentiment and generosity of lieart. 
It is to be regi-etted, that, in his Holy Fair, 
and in some of his other poems, his humour 
degenerates into personal satire, and that it 
is not sufficiently guarded iu other respects, 
Tlie Halloween of Burns is free from every 
objection of this sort. It is interesting, not 
merely from its humorous description of 
manners, but as it records the spells and 
charms used on the celebration of a festival, 
now even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 
but which was once observed over the greater 
part of Britain and Ireland. (141) These 
charms are supposed to afford an insight 
into futurity, especially on the subject of 
marriage, the most interesting event of rural 
life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- 
forming one of the spells, has occasion to go 
out by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into 
a stream runninr) toioards the south. It was 
not necessary for Burns to give a description 
of this stream. But it was the character of 
his ardent mind to pour forth not merely 
what the occasion required, but what is ad- 
mitted ; and the temptation to describe so 
beautiful a natural object by mooulight, wai 
not to be resisted — 

" WTiyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 
As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
"Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

Whyles iu a wlel it dimpl't; 
Whyies glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

\Vi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
■Wtiyles cookit underneath the braes. 
Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish dia- 
Icct will allow this to be one of the finest 
instances of description which the records of 
poetry afford. (142) Though of a very different 
nature, it may be compared, in point of ex- 
cellence, with Thomson's description of a 
river s woollen by the rains of winter, burst- 
ing through the streights that confine it» 
torrent, " boiling, wheeling, foaming, and 
thundering along." 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, 
in rural poetry of a serious nature, Burns 
excelled equally as in that of a humoroui 
kind ; and, using lese of the Scottish dialK^ 



•Vvj 






v^S^iii^ c*"^^. 



-^ Itill 







iinili!linif!lllll!ll!llllluiC;!l!lillillll[||||||||IHIllllIUIIIIii» 




SENSIBILITY OP BURNS. 



81 



hi his serious poems, he becomes more g;e- 
nerally intelligible. It is difficult to decide 
whether the Address to a Mouse, whose nest 
was turned up with the plough, should be 
considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
it may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
most linished of his productions. If we 
Bmile at the " bickering brattle" of this little 
flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness 
and pity, llie descriptive part is admirable ; 
the moral reflections beautiful, and arising 
directly out of the occasion ; and in the con- 
clusion there is a deep melancholy, a sen- 
timent of doubt and dread, that rises to 
the sublime. The address to a Mountain 
Daisy, turned down with the plough, is a 
poem of the same nature, though somewhat 
mferior in point of originality, as well as in 
the interest produced. To extract out of 
incidents so common, and seemingly so tri- 
vial as these, so line a train of sentiment 
and imagery, is the surest proof, as well as 
the most brilliant triumph, of original ge- 
nius. The vision, in two cantos, from which 
a beautiful extract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, 
in the 97th number of The Lounger, is a 
poem of ffreat and various excellence. The 
opening, m which the poet describes his own 
state of mind, retiring in the evening, wea- 
ried from the labours of the day, to moralise 
on his conduct and prospects, is truly 
interesting. The chamber, if we may so 
term it, in which he sits down to muse, is 
an exquisite painting : 

•• There, lanely, by the ingle «heek 
I sat ;md ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fiUed wi' hoast-provoking sme«k 

The auld clay bigsin ; 
And heard the restless rations squeak 

About the riggin." 
To reconcile to our imagination the en- 
trance of an aerial being into a mansion of this 
kind, required the powers of Bums — he 
nowcTcr succeeds. Coila enters, and her 
countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike 
those of other spiritual beings, are distinctly 
poiu-trayed. To tiie painting on her mantle, 
on which is depicted the most striking 
scenery, as weU as the most distinguished 
characters, of his native countrry, some ex- 
ceptions may be made. The mantle of Coila, 
hke the cup of Thyrsis, and the shield of 
Achdles, is too much crowded with figures, 
•lid some of the objects represented upon 
it are scarcely admissible, according to the 
principles of design. The generous tem- 
perament of Burns led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he en- 
i&rged the number of figures originally 
VititKluced, that he might include objects to 



I which he was attached by sentimenti o^ 
I affection, gratitude, or patriotism. Th» 
second duan, or canto, of this poem, in 
which Coila describes her own nature and 
occupations, particularly her superinten- 
. deuce of his infant genius, and in which she 
I reconciles him to the character of a bard, is 
an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, 
ranking in all respects, excepting the har- 
mony of numbers, with the higher produc- 
tions of the English muse. The concluding 
stanza, compared with that already quoted, 
will show to what a height Burns rises in 
this poem, from the point at which he set 
out: — 

"And wear thou this — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polished leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play : 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away." 

In various poems. Burns has exhibited 
the picture of a mind under the deep im- 
pressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the 
Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a 
Dirge, are of this character. In the first of 
these poems, the 8th stanza, which describos 
a sleepless night from anguish of mind, is 
particularly striking. Burns often indidged 
in those melancholy views of the nattJre and 
condition of man, which are so congenial 
to the temperament of sensibility. The 
poem entitled Man was Made to IMoum, 
affords an instance of this kind, and the 
Winter Night is of the same description. 
The last is highly characteristic, both of the 
temper of mind, and of the condition ol 
Burns. It begins with a description of a 
dreadful storm on a night in winter. The 
poet represents himself as lying in bed, ami 
listening to its howling. In this situation 
he naturally turns his thoughts to the owrie 
(143) cattle, and silly (144) sheep, exposed 
to all the violence of the tempest. Having 
lamented their fate, he proceeds in the fol" 
lowing maimer : — 

" Ilk happing bird— wee, helpless thing I 
Thst, in the merrv months o' sprinjjj 
Deiifhted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee T 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing. 

And close thy ee I " 

Other reflections of the same nature 
occur to his mind; and as the midnight 
moon " muffled with clouds " casts her 
dreary light on his window, thoughts or a 
darker and more melancholy nature crowd 
upon him. In this state of mind, he heari 
a voice pouring throigh the gloom a solemif 




Mi^ 




82 



LIFE OF BU'RNS. 



Ksd plaiiitivr? strain of reflection. The 
mourner compares the fury of the elements 
witli that of man to his brother man, and 
folds the former hglit in the balance. 

•' See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mac) Ambition's orory hand, 

Bending-, like bloodliounds from the slip, 
Woe, wajit, and murder, o'er the land." 

lie pursues this train of reflection 
throuj;h a variety of particulars, in the 
co'irse of which he introduces the following 
Hiimated apostrophe : — 

" Oh, ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown I 
lll--;atistip(i keen nature's clam'rous call, 

StrclcU'd on his straw he lays him down to 
sleep, 
VNliile tUro' the ra!rQ:ed roof and chinky wall. 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." 

The strain of sentiment which runs 
through this poem is noble, though the exe- 
cmion is uiicciual, and the ve'..Aiication is 
iefcctive. 

Among the serious poems of Bums, The 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled 
to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of 
Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
tliis poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
but after the plan was formed, ]3urns trusted 
entirely to his own powers for the execution. 
Fergusson's poem is certainly very beautiful. 
It has all the charms which depend on rural 
characters and manners happily pourtrayed, 
and exhibited imder circumstances highly 
grateful to the imagination. The Farmer's 
lugle begins with describing the return of 
evening. The toils of the day are over, and 
the farmer retires to his comfortable fireside. 
The reception which he and his men-servants 
receive from the careful housewife, is pleas- 
ingly described. After their supper is over, 
they begin to talk ou the rural events of the 
day. 
"'Boutkirk and market eke their tales'^aeon, 

How Juck woo'<l Jciiiii/ here to be his bride ; 
And there how Marion for a bastard son, 

Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride. 
The waefu' scauld o' our Mess Juhn to bide." 

The "guidame" is next introduced as 
forming a circle round the fire, in the midst 
of her grand<:hildren, and while she spins 
from the locli, and the spindle plays on her 
" russet lap," she is relating to the young 
ones tales of witches and gliogtg. The poet 
exf.lainis, 

*• Oh, mock na this, my friends ! bat rather 
mourn. 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
fi'i' eild our idle fancies a' return. 



And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; 
The mind's aye crnrf/ed'-when the grave ig 
near," 

In the meantime, the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch 
w hich extends on one side of the fire, und 
the cat and house-dog leap upon it to re- 
ceive his caresses. Here resting at his ease, 
he gives his directions to his men-servants 
for tlie succeeding day. The housewife 
follows his example, and gives her orders to 
the maidens. By degrees the oil in the 
cruise begins to fail, the fire runs low, sleep 
steals on this rustic group, and they move 
olT to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The 
poet concludes by bestowing liis blessings 
on the '■ husbandman and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting 
pastoral. It possesses every thing required 
in this species of composition. We might 
ha\ e perhaps said every thing that it admits, 
had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday 
Night. 

The cottager returning from his labonre, 
has no servants to accompany him, to 
partake of his fare, or to receive his instruc- 
tions. The circle which he joins, is com- 
posed of his wife and children only ; and if 
it admits of less variety, it affords an oppor- 
tunity for representing scenes that more 
strongly interest the affections. The 
younger children running to meet him, and 
clambering round his knee — the elder, re- 
turinng from their weekly labours with the 
neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing 
their little gains with their parents, and re- 
ceiving their father's blessing and instruc- 
tions— the incidents of the courtship of 
Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman 
grown" — are circumstances of the most in- 
teresting kind, which are most hapjiily de- 
lineated ; and after their frugal supper, the 
representation of these humble cottagers 
forming a wider circle round their hearth, 
and uniting in the worship of God, is a 
picture the most deeply alfecting of any 
which the rural muse has ever presented to 
the view. Burns was admirably adapted to 
this delineation. Like all men of genius, 
he was of the temperament of devotion, 
and the powers of memory co-operated in 
this instance with the sensibility of his 
heart, and the fervour of his imagina^ 
tion. (145) The Cotter's Saturday Night la 
tender and moral, it is solemn and devo- 
tional, and rises at length into a strain of 
grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
poetry baa not surpassed. The noble sent*- 
menta of patriotism with which it co«i. 








BUENS'S OEIGINAUTT. 



8S 



eludes correspond with the rest of the 
poem Tn nc age or country have the 
pastoral muses breathed such elevated 
uccents if the Slessiah of Pope be excepted, 
which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It 
is to b'i regretted that B\irns did not employ 
his genius on other subjects of the same 
nature, wiiich the manners and customs of 
the Scottish peasantry would have amply 
supplied. Such poetry is not to be esti- 
jnated by the degree of pleasure which it 
bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and 
is calculated, far beyond any other human 
means, for giving permanence to the scenes 
■nd characters it so exquisitely describes. 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to 
offer a few observations on the IjTic produc- 
tions of Burns. His compositions of this 
kind are chiefly songs, generally in the 
Scottish dialect, and always after the model 
of the Scottish songs, on the general cha- 
racter and moral influence of which some 
observations have already been offered. We 
may hazard a few more particular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
land, it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has 
nowliere imitated them, a circumstance to be 
regretted, since in this species of composi- 
tion, from its admitting the mere terrible as 
well as the softer graces of poetry, he was 
eminently qualified to have excelled, The 
Scottish songs which served as a model to 
Burns, are, almost without exception, pas- 
toral, or rather rural. Such of them as are 
comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship 
or a country wedding ; or they describe the 
differences of opinion which arise in mar- 
ried life. Burns has imitated this species, 
and surpassed his models. The song, be- 
ginning, " Husband, husband, cease your 
strife,'" ^ay be cited in support of this ob- 
servation. (146) His other comic songs ! 
Bre of equal merit. In the rural songs of ^ 
Scotland, whether humorous or tender, the 
sentiments are given to particular characters, 
and very generally, the incidents are re- 
ferred to particular scenery. This last 
circumstance may be considered as the dis- 
tinguishing feature of the Scottish songs, 
and on it a considerable part of their attrac- 
tion depends. On all occasions the senti- 
ments, of whatever nature, are delivered in 
the character of the person principally in- 
terested. If love be described, it is not as 
it is observed, but as it ii felt ; and the 
passion is delineated under a particular 
aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of 
desire that are expressed, as in the celebrated 
ode of Sappho, the model of so many 
tnodera sougs. but those gentler emotions of 



9 



tenderness and affection, which do not 
entirely absorb the lover, but permit him to 
associate his emotions with the charms of 
external nature, and breathe the accents ot 
purity and innocence, as well as of love. In 
these respects, the love-songs of Scotland 
are honorably distinguished from the most 
admired classical compositions of the same 
kind ; and by such associations, a variety, aa 
well as Uveliness, is given to the representa- 
tion of this passion, which are not to be 
found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or 
perhaps of any other nation. IMany of the 
love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of 
rural courtship ; many may be considered 
as invocations from lovers to their mis- 
tresses. On such occasions a degree of in- 
terest and reality is given to the sentiments, 
by the spot destined to these happy inter- 
views being particularized. Tlie lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, 
or on the banks of Ettrick ; the nyini'.hs 
are invoked to wander among the wilds ot 
Roslin, or the woods of Invermay. Nor is 
the spot merely pointed out ; the scenery is 
often described as well as tlie characters, so 
as to present a complete picture to the 
fancy. (147) Thus the maxim of Horace ut 
pictarapoesis, is faithfully observed by these 
rustic bards, who are guided by the same 
impulse of nature and sensibility which in- 
fluenced the father of epic poetry, on whose 
example the precept of the Roman poet was 
perhaps founded. By this means the imagi- 
nation is employed to interest the fechngs. 
When we do not conceive distinctly, we do 
not sympathise deeply in any humsm aflV^c- 
tion ; and we conceive nothing in the ab- 
stract. Abstraction, so useful in morals, 
and so essential in science, must be aban- 
doned when the heart is to be subdued by 
the powers of poetry or of eloquence. The 
bards of a ruder condition of society paint 
individual objects ; and hence, among other 
causes, the easy access they obtain to the 
heart. Generalization is the vice of poets 
whose learning overpowers their genius ; of 
poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so 
much in the Scottish songs, while it con- 
tributes greatly to the interest they excite, 
also shows that they have originated among 
a people in the earlier stages of society 
Where this form of composition appears in 
songs of a modern date, it indicates that 
they have been written after *he ancient 
model. (148) 

The Scottish songs are of very unequal 
poetical merit, and this inequality often 
extends to the different parts of tiie same 



84 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



sonjf. Those that are hvimorons, or cha- 
racierislic of inanuers, have in general the 
merit of copynig nature ; tho-e that are 
serious, are teiuier, and often sweetly 
hiteresting, but s -lilom exhibit high powers 
of iniaguiation, which indeed da not easily 
find a place in this species of composition. 
Tlie allia!ice of the words of the Scottish 
Bongs with the music, has in some instance 
given to the former a popularity, which 
otherwise they would not have obtained. 

The association of the words and the 
music of tiiese songs, with the more beau- 
tiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, 
contributes to the same effect. It has given 
thera not merely popularity, but perma- 
nence ; it has imi)arted to the works of man 
some portion of the durability of the works 
of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- 
perience of the past, we may judge with 
any confidence respecting the future, songs 
of this description are of all others least 
'ikely to die. In the changes of la'iiguage 
they may no doubt suffer cliange ; but the 
associated strain of sentiment and of music 
will perhaps survive, while the clear streum 
sweeps down the Tale of Yarrow, or the 
yellow broom waves on Cowden-Kuowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song- 
writing were not very successful. His 
habitual inattention to the exactness of 
rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, 
arising proijably from tlie models on which 
his versification was formed, were faults 
likely to appear to more disadvantage in 
■Wiis species of composition than in any 
other ; and we may also remark, that the 
'trength of his imagination, and the 
exuberance of his sensibility, were with 
{itticulty restrained within the limits of 
gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which 
seemed to be assigned to the love-songs of 
his nation. Burns was better adapted by 
nature frjr following, in such compositions, 
the model of the Grecian than of the 
Scottish muse. By study and practice, he 
however surmounted all these obstacles. 
In his earlier songs, there is some rugged- 
aess, but this gradually disappears in his 
successive efforts ; and some of his later 
compositions of this kind may be compared, 
in polished delicacy, with the finest songs in 
»ur language, while in the eloquence of 
sensibility they surpass thom ail. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, 
and for the greater part amatory ; and the 
beauties of rural nature are everywhere 
associated with the passions and emotions 
of the uiiud. Disdaining to copy the works 



of others, he has not, like some poets ol 
great name, admitted into Ins descriptions 
exotic imagery. The landscapes he haa 
painted, and the objects witn \\ hich they an 
embellished, are, in every single instance, 
such as are to be found in his own country. 
In a mountainous region, especially when it 
is comparatively rude and naked, the nmst 
beautiful scenery will always be found in tlie 
Tallies, and on the banks of the wooded 
streams. Such scenery is peculiarly inter- 
esting at the close of a summer-day. As wp 
advance north?, ards, the number of the days 
of summer, indeed diminishes; but from 
this cause, as well as from the mildness o( 
the temperature, the attraction of the 
season increases, and the summer night 
becomes still more beautifid. The greater 
obliijuity of the sun's path on the ecliptic, 
prolongs the grateful season of twilight to 
the midnight hours ; and the shades of tlie 
evening seem to mingle with the morning's 
dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as may 
be expected, associate in their songs the 
expressions of passion with the most 
beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest 
season of the year, and generally in those 
hours of the evening when the beauties ol 
nature are most interesting. (149.) 

To all these adventitious circumstancei^ 
on which so much of the effect of poetry 
depends, great attention is paid by 15 urns. 
There is scarcely a single song of his. in 
which particular scenery is not described, or 
allusions made to natural objects, remarkable 
for beauty or interest ; and though his 
descriptions are not so full as are sometimes 
met with in the older Scottish songs, they 
are in the highest degree appropriate and 
interesting. Instances in proof of thi« 
might be quoted from the Lea Rig, High- 
land Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan 
Water ; f^om that beautiful pastoral, 
Bonnie Jean, and a great number of others. 
Occasionally the force of his genius carries 
him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish 
song, and the natural objects introducej 
have more of the character of sublimity. A» 
instance of this kind is noticed by Mr„ 
Syrae, and many others might be adduced : 

" Had I a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the wave's daskii^ 
roiir ; 
There would I weep my woes, 
Tliere seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should closs. 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in 
» winter night, the "wan moon" is des- 
cribed as " setting behind the white waves ;" 



EEMARKS ON THE DIALECT. 



8S 



in another, the "storms" are ape strophiseil, 
and commaiuied to "rest in the cave of 
tlieir slumbers." Ou several occasions, the 
gecMus of Burns lost sight entirely of his 
ari'lietypes, and rises into a strain of uniform 
Bublimity. Instances of this kind appear in 
libertie, a Vision ; and in his two war- 
songs, Bruce to his Troops, and the Song of 
l)eath. These last are of a description of 
winch we have no other in our language 
Tiie martial songs of our nation are not 
military, but naval. If we were to seek a 
comparison of these songs of Burns with 
othin-s of a similar nature, we must have 
recourse to the poetry of ancient Greece, or 
of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to 
the songs of Scotland, in his compositions, 
the poecry equals and soraetmies surpasses 
the music. He lias enlarged the poetical 
scenery of his country. Many of her rivers 
and mountains, formerly unknown to the 
muse, are now consecrated by his immortal 
Tcr-se. The Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the 
Kith, and the Cluden, will in future, like 
the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 'lay, be 
considered as classical streams, and their 
borders will be trodden with new and 
sujicrior emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns 
were written after he removed into the 
county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, 
by habits formed in early life, he usually 
Ciiuposed while walking in the open air. 
AA'hen engaged in writing these songs, his 
favourite walks were on the banks of the 
Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near the 
rams of Lincluden Abbey ; and this beauti- 
ful scenery he has very happily described 
u;ider various aspects, as it appears during 
tlie softness and serenity of evening, and 
daring the stillness and solemnity of the 
moonlight night. 

1 here is no species of poetry, the produc- 
tiins of the drama not excepted, so much 
calculated to influence the morals, as well as 
the happiness of a people, as those popular 
verses which are associated with national 
ails : and which being learnt in the years of 
infancy, make a deep impression on the 
heart before the evolution of the powers of 
the understanding. 'I'he compositions of 
Burns of this kind, now presented in a col- 
lected form to the world, make a most im- 
portant addition to the popular songs of his 
uatiun. Like all his other writings, they 
exhibit independence of sentiment ; they are 
peculiarly calculated to increase those ties 
whicli Ijiud generous hearts to their native 
•Oil, and to the domestic circle of their in- 



fancy ; and to cherish those sensibilities 
which, under due restriction, form tlie purest 
happiness of our nature. If in liis unguarded 
moments he composed some songs on which 
this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope 
that they will speedily be foi-gotten. lu 
several instances where Scottish airs were 
allied to words objectionable in point of 
delicacy. Burns has substituted others of a 
purer character. On such occasions, without 
changing the subject, he has changed the 
sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in 
the air of John Anderson my Joe, w liich is 
now united to words that breathe a strain of 
conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral 
as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Burns's 
genius, than the general circulation of his 
poems in England, notwithstanding the 
dialect in which the greater part are written, 
and which might be supposed to render them 
here uncouth or obscure. In some instances 
he has used this dialect on subjects of a 
sublime nature; but in general he confines 
it to sentiments or description of a tender 
or humorous kind ; and, where he rises into 
elevation of thought, he assumes a purei 
English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
sessed of mingling in the same poem humo- 
rous sentiments anddescriptions with imagery 
of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled him 
to use this variety of dialect on some occa- 
sions with striking effect. His poem of Tam 
o' Shanter affords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humour 
to situations of the most awful and terrible 
kind. He is a musician that runs from the 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the 
use of the Scottish dialect enables him to 
add two additional notes to the bottom of 
his settle. 

Great efforts have been made by the in- 
habitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, 
to approximate in their speech to the pure 
English standard. Yet an Englishman who 
understands the meaning of the Scottish 
words, IS not offended, nay, on certain subjects, 
he is, perhaps, pleased with the rustic dialect. 

But a Scotcliman inhabiting his own 
country, if a man of education, and more 
especially if a literary character, has banished 
such words from his writings, and has at- 
teinpteil to banish them from his speech. 
A dislike of this kind is, however, ac» 
cideiital, not natural. It is of the species 
of disgust which we feel at seeing a female 
of high birth in the dress of a rustic: 
which, if she be really young and beautiful, 
a Uttle habit will enable us to overcome. A 



' lllliKlllllllllillllllllllllllllllllllllllii 



86 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



lady who assumes such a dress puts her 
beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of 
fashion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace 
of elegant and flowing drapery; but her 
native charms remain, the more striking, 
perhaps, because the less adorned, and to 
these she trusts for fixing her empire on 
those affections over which fashion has no 
sway. If she succeeds, a new association 
ari^ies. The dress of the beautiful rustic be- 
corass itself beautiful, and establishes a 
new fashion for the young and the gay. 
And when, in after ages, the contemjjlative 
observer shall view her picture in the gallery 
that contains the portraits of the beauties of 
successive centuries, each in the dress of her 
respective day, her drapery will not deviate, 
more than that of her rivals, from the 
standard of his taste, and he will give the 
palm to her who excels in the lineaments of 
nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry 
of his country, and by them their native 
dialect is universally relished. To a nurae- 
rous class of the natives of Scotland of another 
description, it may also be considered as 
attractive in a dilferent point of view. 
Estranged from their native soil, and spread 
over foreign lands, the idiom of their country 
unites vrith the sentiments and the descrip- 
tions on which it is employed, to recal to 
their minds the interesting scenes of infancy 
and youtlx — to awaken many pleasing, many 
tender recollections. Literary men, residing 
at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on 
this point for one hundred and fifty thousand 
of their expatriated countrymen. (150) 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one 
species of poetry, the composition of songs, 
the taste of the public has been for some 
time reconciled. The dialect in question 
excels, as has already been observed, in the 
copiousness and exactness of its terms for 
natural objects; and in pastoral or rural 
songs, it gives a Doric simplicity which is 
very ge'jerally approved. Neither does the 
regret seem well founded which some persons 
of taste have expressed, that Burns used this 
dialect in so many other of his compositions. 
His declared purpose was to paint the man- 
ners of rustic life among his " humble cora- 
pfers," and it is not easy to conceive, that 
this could have been done with equal humour 
and effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. 
There are some, indeed, who will think the 
subject too low for poetry. Persons of this 
sickly taste will find their delicacies consulted 



in many a polite and learned authdr ; let 
them not seek for gratificalion in the rough 
and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, 
or in the overpowering oeusibility of tliia 
bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of 
Burns would be no easy task. Many per- 
sons, afterwards distinguished in literature, 
have been born in as humble a situation of 
life ; but it would be difficult to lind any 
other, who, while earning his subsistence by 
daily labour, has written verses which hava 
attracted and retained universal attention, 
and which are likely to give the author a 
permanent and distinguished place among 
the followers of the muses. If he is deficient 
in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well 
as energy; and these are indications of the 
higher order of genius. The father of epic 
poetry exhibits one of hw heroes as excelling 
in strength, another ui swiftness— to form 
his perfect warrior, these attributes are com- 
bined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
riority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrange- 
ment. One wTiter excels in force — another 
in ease; he is superior to them both, in 
whom both these quahties are united. Of 
Homer himself it may be said, that, like his 
own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors 
in mobility as well as strength. 

'I'he force of Burns lay in the powers of 
his understanding and in the sensibility of 
his heart ; and these will be found to infuse 
the living principle into all the works of 
genius which seen^ destined to immortality. 
His sensibility had an uncommon range. 
He was alive to every species ot emotion. 
He is one of the few poets that can be men- 
tioned, who have at once excelled in humour, 
in tenderness, and in sublimity; a praise 
unknown to the ancients, and which in 
modern times is only due to Ariosto, to 
Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To 
compare the writings of the Scottish peasants 
with the works of these giants in literature, 
might appear presumptuous ; yet it may be 
asserted that he has displayed the foot of 
Hercules. How near he might have ap- 
proached them by proper culture, \\iih 
lengthened years, and under happier auspices, 
it is not for us to calculate. But while we 
run over the melancholy story of his life, it 
is impossible not to heave a sigh at the 
asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey 
the records of his mind, it is easy to see, 
that out of such materials have been reared 
the fairest and the most durable of the 
monuments of genius. 



LETTER EflOM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. 



8? 



5l&kn&a. 



dJitrails frnra ttWm. 



fISOM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, 

bespecxing the composition of his 

brother's poems. 

"Mossf/iel, 2nd April, 1793. 
" I CANNOT pretend to be very accurate in 
respect to the dates of the poeras, but none 
of them, excepting Winter, a Dirf,'e (which 
was a juvenile production), The Death and 
Dying Words of poor Mailia, and some of 
the son^s, were composed before the year 
1784. The circumstances of the poor sheep 
were pretty much as he lias described them. 

" Among the earliest of his poems was 
the Epistle to Davie. Robert often com- 
posed without any regular plan When 
anything made a strong impression on his 
mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he 
woidd give way to the impulse, and embody 
the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or 
three stanzas to please him, he would then 
think of proper introductory, connecting, 
and concluding stanzas ; hence the middle of 
a poem was often first produced. It was, I 
think, in summer 1784, when, in the interval 
of harder labour, he and 1 were weeding in 
the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to 
me the principal part of this epistle. I 
believe the first idea of Robert's becoming 
an author was started on this occasion. I 
was much pleased with the epistle, and said 
to him I was of opinion it woidd bear being 
printed, and that it woidd be well received 
by people of taste; that I thought it at 
least equal, if not superior, to many of 
Allan Ramsay's epistles ; and that the merit 
of these, and much other Scotch poetry, 
seemed to consist principally in the knack 
of the expression, but here there was a train 
of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism 
of the langviage scarcely seemed affected, 
but appeared to be the natural language of 
the i)oet : that, besides, there was certainly 
some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
consolations that were in store for him when 
he should go a-begging. Robert seemed 
very well pleased with my criticism, and we 
talked of sending it to some magazmc ; but 
as this plan afforded no opjjortunity of 
knowing how it would take, the idea was 
dropped. 

" It was, I think, in the winter following, 
u we Mere going together with carts for 

9 



coal to the family fire (and I couW ^et point 
out the particular spot), that tie authoi 
first repeated to me the Address to the 
Deil. The curious idea of such an address 
was suggested to him by ruunnig over in 
his mind the many ludicrous accounts and 
representations we have frora various quar- 
ters of this august personage. Death and 
Doctor Hornbook, though not published in 
the Kilmarnock edition, was produced eaily 
in the year 1783. The schoolmaster of 
Tarbolton parish, to eke out the scanty sub- 
sistence allowed to that useful class of men, 
had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having 
accidentally fallen in with some medic;J 
books, and become most hobby-horsicall» 
attached to the study of medicine, he had 
added the sale of a few medicines to Ids 
little trade. He had got a shoji-bill printed, 
at the bottom of which, overlooking his own 
incapacity, he had adNertised that ' Advice 
would be given in common disorders at the 
shop gratis.' Robert was at a mason meet- 
ing in Tarbolton, when the dominie unfor- 
tunately made too ostentatious a display of 
his medical skill. As he parted in the 
evening from this mixture of pedantry and 
physic, at the place where he describes liia 
meeting with Death, one of those floating 
ideas of apparitions he mentions in his 
letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this 
set him to work for the rest of the nay 
home. Tliese circumstances he related w hej* 
he repeated the verses to me next afternoon 
as 1 was holding the plough, and he wa« 
letting the water off the field beside me. 
The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced 
exactly on the occasion described by the 
author. He says in that poem, ' On Easten 
e'en we had a rockin.' I believe he has 
omitted the word rocking in the glossary. 
It is a term derived from those primitive 
times, when the countrywomen employed 
their spare hours in spinning on the rock, or 
distaff". The simple im))lemeut is a very 
portable one, and well fitted to the social 
inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of going a-rocking, 
or with the rock. As the connection the 
phrase had with the implement was forgot- 
ten, when the rock gave place to the spin- 
ning-wlieel, the phrase came to be used by 
both sexes on social occasions, and men talk 
of going wifh their rocks as well as women. 
" It was at one of these rotkiitgt at our 



B8 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



house, when we had twelve or fifteen young 
people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, 
beginning— 'Wlien I upon thy bosom lean/ 
was sung, and we were informed who was 
the author. Upon this, Robert wrote his 
first epistle to Laipraik, and his second in 
reply to his answer. The verses to the 
Mouse and Mountain Daisy were composed 
on the occasions mentioned, and while the 
■uthor was holding the plough ; I could 
point out the particular spot where each was 
composed. Holding the plough was a 
favourite situation with Robert for poetic 
composition, and some of his best verses 
were produced while he was at that exercise. 
Several of the poems were produced for the 
pur])ose of bringing forward some favourite 
sentiment of the author. Robert had fre- 
«,uently remarked to me that he thought 
tliere was something pec\iliarly venerable in 
tVie phrase, ' Let us worship God,' used by a 
decent, sober head of a family, introduciug 
family worship. To this sentiment of the 
author the world is indebted for the Cotter's 
Saturday Night. When my brother had 
some pleasure in view, in which I was 
thought lit to parncijiate, we used frequently 
to walk togetlipr, wheu the weather was 
favourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those 
pvecious breathing times to the labouring \Yixt 
of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays 
ts would make one regret to see their number 
fthridged. It was in one of these walks that 
1 first had the pleasure of hearing the 
author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
I do not recollect to have read or heard any- 
thing by which I was more highly electrified. 
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eight- 
eenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through 
my soul. I mention this to you, that you 
may see what hit the taste of unlettered 
criticism. I should be glad to know, if the 
enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr. 
Roscoe, who has borne such honourable 
testimony to this poem, agrees with me in 
the selection. Fergusson, in his Hallow 
Fair of Edinburgh, I believe, likevnse fur- 
nished a hint of the title and plan of the 
Holy Fair. The farcical scene the poet 
there describes was often a favourite field of 
his observation, and the most of the incidents 
he mentions had actually passed before his 
eyes. It is scarcely neces'iary to mention, 
that The Lament wars composed on that 
unfortmiate ])assage in his matrimonial his- 
tory which I have mentioned in my letter to 
Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of 
his feelings had a little subsided. The Twa 
Dogs was composed after the resolution of 
pubhshiug was nearly taken. Robert had 



had a dog, which he called Luath, that wa* 
a great favourite. The dog had been killed 
by the wanton cruelty of some person thf 
night before my father's death. Robert saiA 
to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow upon his oW 
friend Luath, and that he had a great mind 
to introduce something into the book, under 
the title of Stanzas to the Memory of a 
Quadruped Friend ; but this plan was given 
up for the tale as it now stand^3. Cajsar was 
merely the creature of the poet's imagina- 
tion, created for the purpose of holding chat 
with his favourite Luath. The first tim« 
Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was 
at the hoTise of Ur. T;awrie, then minister of 
the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
having given up the parish in favour of his 
son. Dr. LawTie has several daughters; 
one of them played ; the father and mother 
led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the poet, and the other guests, 
mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
scene for our poet, then lately introduced to 
the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas [which he 
wrote on the occasion] were left in the room 
where he slept. It was to Dr. Lawrie tha'' 
Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, whxch. 
my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore^ 
mentions as the reason of his gomg to 
Edinburgh. » • •» 



LETTER OF GILBEUT BURXS. 
CF'trst inserted in the Sicoiid E lition.) 

The editor [Dr. Currie] has particidar 
pleasure in presenting to the public tiie 
following letter, to the due understanding of 
which a few previous observations are 
necessary. 

The biographer of Burns was naturally 
desirous of hearing the opinion of the friend 
and brother of the poet, on the manner iu 
which he had executed his task, before a 
second edition should be committed to the 
press. He had the satisfaction of receiving 
this opinion, in a letter dated the 24th of 
August, appro vhig of tne Life iu very 
obliging terms, and offering one or two 
trivial corrections as to names and daces 
chieiiy, which are made m this edition. One 
or two observations were offered of a differ- 
ent kind. In the 319th page [correspond, 
ing to the 66th page of the present reprint 
of Dr. Currie's memoir], a quotation is ma<le 
from the pasitoral song, Ettrick Banks, ana 
an explanation given of the phrase "ui.iny 
feck," which occurs in this quotation. Sup. 
posmg tlie sense to be complete aftei 







ADDEITOA. 



89 



•inony," the editor had considered "feck" a 
rustic oath which coniinned the assertion. 
TliP words were, tlierefore, separated by a 
comma. ]\Ir. Burns considered this an 
error. "Feck," he presumes, is the Scot- 
tish word for quantity, and "mony feck" 
to mean simply, very many. Tlie editor, in 
yielding to this authority, expressed some 
hesitation, and hinted that the phrase 
" mony feck " was, in Mr. Burns's sense, 
a. pleonasm, or barbarism, which deformed 
this beautifid song. His reply to this obser- 
vation makes the first clause of the foUowmg 
letter. 

In the same communication he informed 
me, that the Mirror and the Lounger were 
proposed by him to the Conversation Chib 
of Mauchline, and that he had thoughts of 
giving me liis sentiments on the remarks I 
had made respecting the fitness of such 
works for such societies. Tlie observations 
of such a man on such a subject, the editor 
conceived, would be received with particular 
interest by the public, and, having pressed 
earnestly for them, they will be found in the 
following letter. Of the value of this com- 
munication, delicacy towards his very re- 
spectable correspondent prevents him from 
expressing his opinion. The original letter 
is in the hands of Messrs. Cadell and ' 
Davies. 

" Binimg, Dumfries-shire, 24th Oct., 1800. 

"Dear Sir. — ^Yovu-s of the 17th instant 
came to my hand yesterday, and I sit down 
this afternoon to write you in return ; but 
when 1 shall be able to finish all 1 wish to 
say to you, I cannot tell. I am sorry your 
conviction is not complete respecting /w^-. 
Tlicre is no doubt, that if you take two 
English words which appear synonymous to 
moiijj fecit, and judge by the rules of English 
construction, it will appear a barbarism. I 
believe, if you take this mode of translating 
from any language, the eS'ect will frequently 
be the same. But if you take the expression 
mo)iy feck to have, as I have stated it, the 
Bame meaning with the English expression 
ten/ many (and siuili licence every translator 
must be allowed, especially when he trans- 
lates from a simple dialect which has never 
been subjected to rule, and where the precise 
meaning of words is, of consequence, not 
minutely attended to), it will be well enough. 
One thing I am certain of, that ours is the 
eeuse luuversally understood in this country; 
»ud I believe uo Scotsman who has lived 
»»ntfiuted at home, pleased with the simple 
manners, the simple melodies, and the sim- 
ple dialect of hi^ native country, miwtiated 



by foreign intercourse, 'who-te soul-proud 
science never taught to stray,' ever dis- 
covered barbarism in the song of Ettiick 
Banks. 

" The story you have heard of the gablf 
of my father's house falling down, is simply 
as follows (151) : — "VMien my father built his 
' clay biggin,' he put in two stone-jambs, aa 
they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a 
chimney in his clay-gable. The consequence 
was, that as the gable subsided, the jambs, 
remaining firm, threw it off its centre ; and 
one very stormy morning, when my brother 
was nine or ten days old, a little before day- 
light, a part of the gable fell out, and the 
rest appeared so shattered, that my mother, 
with the young poet, had to be carried 
through the storm to a neighbour's house, 
where they remained a week till their own 
dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
think too meanly of this house, or of mj 
father's taste in building, by supposing thr 
poet's description in the Vision (which iif 
entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, 
allow me to take notice to you, that the 
house consisted of a kitchen in one end, and 
a room in the other, with a fire-place and 
chimney ; that my father had constructed a 
concealed bed in the kitchen, with a snuiU 
closet at the end, of the same materials with 
the house ; and when altogether cast over, 
outside and in, with lime, it had a neat, 
comfortable appearance, such as no family of 
the same rank, in the present improved style 
of Uving, would think themselves ill-lodged 
in. I wish likewise to take notice in passuig, 
that although the 'Cotter' in the Saturday 
Night, is au exact copy of my father in his 
manners, his family-devotion, and exhort*, 
tions, yet the other parts of the descrip- 
tion do not apply to our family. None of 
us were ever ' at service out amang the nei- 
bors roun'.' Instead pf our depositing oui 
' sair-won penny fee ' with our parents, my 
father laboured hard, and lived with the 
most rigid economy, that he might be able 
to keep his children at home, thereby having 
an opportunity of watching the progress of 
our young minds, and forming in tliem 
early habits of piety and virtue ; and fr'iai 
this motive alone did he eiigage in farmii g— 
the som-ce of all his diilicnlties and dia- 
tresses. 

" When I threatened you in my last witb 
a long letter on the subject of the books I 
recommended to the Mauchline Club, and 
the eifects of refinement of taste on the 
labouring classes of men, I meant merely 
to write you on that subject, with the view 
that, in some future commuuicatiou to th* 




'S^^§}^ 



Sim 




90 



LIFE OP BUENS. 



puWic, yoji might take \ip the subject more 1 
at laige ; that by means of your happy 
maimer of writing, the attention of people 
of power and influence miglit be fixed on it. 
I had httte expectation, however, that I 
should c'.crconie my indolence, and the diffi- 
culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to 
put my threat in execution ; till some time 
ago, before I had finished my harvest, 
having a call from Mr. Ewart (152), with a 
message from you, pressing me to the per- 
formaiice of this task, I thought myself no 
longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved 
to set about it with my first leisure. I will 
now, therefore, endeavour to lay before you 
what has occurred to my mind, on a subject 
where people capable of observation, and of 
placing their remarks in a proper point of 
fiew, have seldom an opportunity of making 
their remarks on real life. In doing this, I 
vaay perliapsbe led sometimes to write more 
*n the manner of a person connnunicating 
information to you which you did not know 
before, and at other times more in the style 
of egotism, than I would choose to do to 
any person, in whose candour, and even per- 
Bonal good will, I had less confidence. 

" Tliere are two several lines of study that 
open to every man as he enters life : the one, 
tlie general science of life, of duty, and of 
happiness ; the other, the particular arts of 
his employment or situation in society, and 
the several branches of knowledge therewith 
connected. This last is certainly indispen- 
sable, as nothing can be more disgraceful 
than ignorance in the way of one's own pro- 
fession ; and whatever a man's speculative 
knowledge may be, if he is ill-informed there, 
he can neither be a usefid nor a respectable 
member of society. It is, nevertheless, true, 
that ' the proper study of mankind is man ;' 
to consider what duties are incumbent on 
him as a rational creature, and a member of 
society , how he may increase or secure his 
happiness ; and how he may prevent or soften 
the many miseries incident to human life. 
1 think the pursuit of happiness is too fre- 
quently confined to the endeavour after the 
acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be 
considered as an idle declaimer against riches, 
which, after all that can be said against them, 
will still be considered by men of common 
sense as objects of importance, and poverty 
will be felt as a sore evil, after all the fine 
things tliat can be said of its advantages ; 
en the oontrarj, I am of ojiinion, that a 
great proportion of the miseries of life arise 
from the ^\ant of economy, and a prudent 
attention to money, or the ill-directed or 
iutemperate pursuit of it. But however 



valuable riches may be as the means of com- 
fort, independence, and the pleasure of doing 
good to others, yet I am of oi)inion that they 
may be, aiid frequently are, purchased at too 
great a cost, and that sacrifices are made in 
tlie pursuit, which the acquisition cannot 
compensate. I remember hearing my worthy 
teacher, Mr. JMurdoch, relate an aiiecd( te to 
my father, which I think sets this matter in 
a strong light, and perhaps was tb.e origin, 
or at least tended to promote this way of 
thinking in me. "VVlien Mr. Murdoch left 
Alloway, he went to teach and reside in the 
family of an opulent farmer who had a num- 
ber of sons. A neighbour coming on a 
visit, in the course of conversation, asked 
the father how he meant to dispose of his 
sons. The father replied that he had not 
determined. The visitor said that, were he 
in his place, he would give tlvm all good 
education and send them abroad, without, 
perhaps, having a precise idea where. The 
father objected, that many young men lost 
their health in foreign countries, and many 
their lives. True, replied the visitor, but as 
yoa have a number of sons, it will be strange 
if some one of them does not hve and make 
a fortune. 

" Let any person who has the feelings of 
a father, comment on this story ; but though 
few will avow, even to themselves, that such 
views govern their conduct, yet do we not 
daily see people shipping oft' their sons (and 
who would do so by their daughters also, if 
there were any demand for them), that they 
may be rich or perish? 

"The education of the lower classes is 
seldom considered in any other ponit of 
view than as the means of raisnig them from 
that station to which they were born, and of 
maknig a fortune. I am ignorant of the 
mysteries of the art of acquiring a fortune 
without any thing to begin with, and cramot 
calculate, with any degree of exactness, the 
difficulties to be surmounted, the mortifica- 
tions to be suffered, and the degradation of 
character to be submitted to, in lending 
one's self to be the minister of other people's 
vices, or in the practice of rapine, fraud, op- 
pression, or dissimulation, in the progress ; 
but even when the wished-for end is attained, 
it may be questioned whether hajipiness be 
much increased by the change. Wlien 1 have 
seen a fortunate adventurer of the lower 
ranks of life returned from the East or West 
Indies, wth all the hauteur of a vulgar 
mind accustomed to be served by slaves, as- 
suming a character, which, from early habita 
of life, he is ill fitted to support — displaying 
maguificence which raises the euvj of somt^ 



ADDENDA. 



01 



»nd tliri contempt of others — claiminj^ an 
equality with the great, which they are un- 
willing to allow — inly piniii"; at the prece- 
dence of the hereditary gentry — maddened 
by the polished insolence of some of the 
unworthy part of thera — seeking jileasiire in 
the society of men who can condescend to 
flatter him, and listen to his absurdity for 
the sake of a good dinner and good wine — 
I cannot avoid concluding, that his brother, 
or companion, who, by a diligent application 
to the labours of agriculture, or some useful 
mechanic employment, and the careful hus- 
')andiiig of his gains, has acquired a com- 
petence in his station, is a much happier, 
and, ill the eye of a person who can take an 
enlarged view of mankind, a much more 
respectable man. 

" But the votaries of wealth may be con- 
sidered as a great number of candidates 
striving for a few prizes : and whatever ad- 
dition the successful may make to their plea- 
sure orhappiness,thc disappointedwdl always 
have more to sutler, I am afraid, than those 
who abide contented in the station to which 
they were born. I wish, therefore, the edu- 
cation of the lower classes to be promoted 
and directed to their improvement as men, 
as the means of increasing their virtue, and 
opemng to them new and dignified sources 
of pleasure and happiness. I have heard 
some people object to the education of the 
lower classes of men, as rendering them less 
useful, by abstracthig thera from their pro- 
per business; others, as tending to make 
them saucy to their superiors, impatient of 
their condition, and turbulent subjects ; 
whde you, with more humanity, liave your 
fears alarmed, lest the delicacy of mind, 
induced by that sort of education and read- 
ing I recommended, should render the evils 
of their situation insupportable to them. I 
wish to examine the validity of each of these 
objections, beginning with the one you have 
Hientioned. 

'■ I do not mean to controvert your criti- 
cism of my favourite books, the I\lirror and 
Lounger, although I understand there are 
people who think themselves judges, w ho do 
not agree with you. ITie acquisition of 
knowledge, except what is connected with 
human life and conduct, or the particular 
business of his employment, does not ap- 
pear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a 
peasant. 1 would say with the poet, 
• How empty learning-, and how vain is art, 
Save whpre it guides the life, or mends the 

heart !' 

" There seems to be a considerable latitude 
ia the use of the word taste. 1 understand 



it to be the perception and relish of beauty, 
order, or any other thing, the contemplation 
of which gives pleasure and delight to tha 
mind. I suppose it is in this sense you wish 
it to be understood. If I am right, the 
taste which these books are calculated to 
cultivate (besides the taste for tine writing, 
which many of the papers tend to improve 
and to gratify), is what is proper, consistent, 
asid becoming in human character and con- 
duct, as almost every paper relates to these 
subjects. 

" I am sorry I have not these books by 

me, that I might point out some instances. 

I remember two ; one, the beautiful story of 

La Roche, where, besides the pleasure one 

I derives from a beautiful simple story, told in 

M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led 

! to taste, with heartfelt rapture, the consola- 

I tion to be derived in deep affliction, from 

j habitual devotion and trust in Almighty 

God. The other, the story of General 

j W , where the reader is led to have a 

I high relish for that firmness of mind which 
! disregards appearances, tus common forms 
I and vanities of life^ for the sake of doing 
I justice in a case which was out of the reach 
of human laws. 

" Allow me then to remark, that if the 
morality of these books is subordinate to 
the cultivation of taste ; that taste, that re- 
finement of mind and delicacy of sentiment 
which they are intended to give, are tl>3 
strongest guard and surest foundation of 
morality and virtue. Other moralists guard, 
as it were, the overt act ; these papers, by 
exalting duty into sentiment, are calcidated 
to make every deviation from rectitude and 
propriety of conduct, painful to the miud 

' AVhose temper'd powers, 
Refine at leni;th, and every pa.ssion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.' 

" I readily grant you, that the refinement 
of mind which I contend for increases oiii 
sensibility to the evils of Ufe ; but what sta- 
tion of life is without its evils ? There 
seems to be no such thing as perfect hap- 
piness in this world, and we must balance 
the pleasure and the pain which we derive 
from taste, before we can properly appre- 
ciate it in the case before us. I apprehend, 
that on a minute examination it will appear, 
that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks of 
hfe derive their power to wound us, more 
from the suggestions of false pride, and 
the 'contagion of luxury, weak and vile,' 
than the refinement of our taste. It was a 
favourite remark of my brother's, that thera 
w&s uo part of the constitution of our n^ 



92 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



t«re to which we were more indebted, than 
tilt by whicli 'custom makes tliinys familiar 
and easy ' (a copy Mr. Murdoch used to set 
us to write) ; and there is little labour 
\rhich custom will not make easy to a man 
in health, if he is not ashamed of his em- 
ployment, or does not begin to compare his 
situation with those he may see going about 
at tlieir ease. 

" But the man of enlarged mind feels the 
respect due to him as a man ; he has learned 
that no employment is dishonourable in 
itself; that while he performs aright the 
duties of that station in which God has 
placed hira, he is as great as a king in the 
eyes of flim whom he is principally desirous 
to please ; for the man of taste, who is con- 
stantly obliged to labour, must of necessity 
be religious. If you teach him only to 
reason, you may make him an atheist, a de- 
magogue, or any vile thing ; but if you 
teach him to feel, his feelings can only find 
their proper and natural relief in devotion 
and religious resignation. He knows that 
those people who are to appearance at ease, 
are not without their share of evils, and 
that even toil itself is not destitute of ad- 
vautages. He listens to the words of his 
favourite poet : 
' Oh, inortul man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grud.;;e thy hard estate I 
That like an ennnet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 

And, certes, there is for it reason fjreat ; 
Although sometimes it makes thee weep and 
wail, [late ; 

And curse thy star, and early drudq-e, and 
Witho'.itcu thut would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale! ' 

" And while he repeats the words, tlie 
grateful recollection co,Mes across his mind, 
liow often he has derivitl ineffable pleasure 
from the sweet song of ' nature's darling 
child.' I can say, from my own experience, 
that there is no sort of farm-labour incon- 
Bistent with the most refined and pleasurable 
Btate of the mind that 1 am accpiaiuted with, 
thrashmg alone excepted. That, indeed, I 
have always considered as insupportable 
drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic 
who invented the thrashing-machine, ought 
to have a statue among the benefactors of 
his country, and should be placed in the 
niche next to the person who introduced the 
culture of potatoes into this island. 

" Perhaps the thing of most importance in 
the education of the common people is, to 
prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I 
bless the memorj uf my worthy father for 
almost every thing in the dispositions of my 
miad, and my habits of life, wuich I can 



approve of; and for none mor« tlian tlie 
pains he took to impress my mind with the 
sentiment, that nothmg wns more unworthy 
the cliaracter of a man, that that his happi- 
ness should in the least depend on what he 
should eat or drink. So early did he im- 
press my mind witii this, that although I 
was as fond of sweetmeats as children gene- 
rally are, yet I seldom laid out any of tho 
half-pence which relations or neighbours 
gave me at fairs, in the purchase of them ; 
and if I did, every mouthful I swallowed 
was accompanied with shame and remorse ; 
and to this hour I never indulge in the uise 
of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable 
degree of self-reproach and alarm for the 
degradation of the human character. Such 
a habit of thinking I consider as of great 
consequence, both to the virtue and happi- 
ness of men in the lower ranks of life. And 
thus. Sir, I am of opinion, that if their 
minds are early and deeply impressed with 
a sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with 
the love of independence and of industry, 
economy and temperance, as the most ob- 
vious means of making themselves inde- 
pendent, and the virtues most becoming 
their situation, and necessary to their happi- 
ness ; men in the lower ranks of life may 
partake of the pleasures to be derived from 
the perusal of books calculated to improve 
the mind and refine the taste, without any 
danger of becoming more unhappy in their 
situation, or discontented with it. Nor do 
I think there is any danger of their be- 
coming less useful. There are some hours 
every day that the most constant labourer is 
neither at work nor asleep. These hours 
are either appropriated to amusement or t(f 
sluth. If a taste for employing these 
hours in reading were cultivated, I do not 
suppose that the return to labour would be 
more dirtieult. Every one will allow, that 
the attachment to idle amusements, or even 
to sloth, has as powerfid a tendency to ab- 
stract men from tlieir proper business, as the 
attachment to books ; wi.ile the one dissi- 
pates the mind, and the other tends to in- 
crease its powers of self-government. To 
those who are afraid that the improvement 
of the minds of the common people nnglit 
be dangerous to the state, or the established 
order of society, I would remark, that tur- 
bulence and commotion are certainly very 
inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. 
Let the matter be brought to the test of ex- 
perience and observation. Of what descrip. 
tion of people are mobs and insurrections 
composed? Are they not universally owing 
to the want of eulargemeut aad iD<{)rov0 



ADDENDA. 



b2 



ment cf mind among the common people? 
Nay, let any one recollect the characters of 
ihose who formed the calmer and more de- 
liberate associations, which lately gave so 
much alarm to the government of this 
country. I suppose few of the common 
people who were to he found in such socie- 
ties, had the education and turn of mnid I 
have been endeavouring to recommend. 
Allow me to suggest one reason for en- 
deavouring to enhi^hten the minds of the 
common people. Their morals have hitherto 
been guarded bv a sort of dim religious awe, 
■which, from a variety of causes, seems wear- 
ing off. I think the alteration in this re- 
spect consid rable, in the short period of my 
observation. I have already given my 
opinion of the effects of refinement of mind 
on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar 
minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the 
religion in which they have been educated, 
the progress is quick and immediate to 
downright infidelity ; and nothing but 
refinement of mind can enable them to dis- 
tinguish between the pure essence of reli- 
gion, and the gross systems which men have 
been perpetually connecting it with. In 
addition to what has already been done for 
the education of the common people of this 
country, in the establishment of parish 
scliools, I wish to see the salaries augmented 
in some proportion to the present expense 
of living, and the earnings of people of 
siaular rank, eulowraents, and usefuhiess, in 
Society ; and 1 hope that the liberality of 
tbe present age will be no longer disgraced 
by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
•uch encouragement as may make paiish 
schools worth the attention of men fitted for 
the important duties of that office. In till- 
ing up the vacancies, I would have more 
attention paid to the candidate's capacity of 
reading the English language with grace 
and propriety — to his understanding tho- 
roughly, and ha\-ing a high relish for, the 
beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
•nd prose — to that good sense and know- 
ledge of human nature which would enable 
him to acquire some influence on tlie minds 
and affections of his scholars — to the general 
worth of his character, and the love of his 
kuig and his conn try — than to his proficiency 
in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I 
would then have % sort of high English 
class established, not only for the purpose of 
teaching the pujiils to read in that graceful 
and agreaable manner that might make them 
fond of reading, but to make them under- 
stand what they read, and discover the 
beauties of the author, iu composition and 



sentiment. I wonld have established in 
every parish a small circulating library, coa- 
sisting of the books which the youuw 
people had read extracts from in the collec- 
tions they had read at school, and any otlier 
books well calculated to refine the mind, im- 
prove the moral feelings, recommend the 
practice of virtue, and communicate such 
knowledge as might he usefid and suitable to 
the labouring classes of men. I would have 
the schoolmaster act as librarian; and in 
recommending books to his young friends, 
formerly his pupils, and letting in the light 
of them upon their young minds, he should 
have the assistance of the minister. If cuce 
such education were become general, the 
low delights of the public-house, and otlier 
scenes of riot and depravity, would be con- 
temned and neglected ; while industry, 
order, cleanliness, and every virtue which 
taste and independence of mind could re- 
commend, would prevail and flourish. Thus 
possessed of a virtuous and enlightened 
populace, with high delight I should con- 
sider my native country as at the head of all 
the nations of the earth, ancient or modern 

'* Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat ft 
the fullest extent, in regard to the length of 
my letter. If I had not presumed on doing 
it more to my liking, I should not have im- 
dertaken it ; but I have not time to attempt 
it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain that I 
should succeed any better. I have learned 
to have less confidence in my capacity of 
writing on sBK^h subjects. 

"I am much obliged by your kind in- 
quiries about my situation and prospects. I 
am much pleased with the soil of this farm, 
and with the terms on which I possess it. I 
receive great erwouragement like'vise iu 
building, enclosing, and other conveniences, 
from my landlord, Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose 
general character and conduct, as a landlord 
and country-gentleman, I am highly pleased 
with. But the land is in such a state as to 
require a considerable immediate outlay of 
money iu the purchase of manure, the 
grubbing of brush- wood, removing of stones, 
&c., which twelve years' struggle with a 
farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill- 
prepared me for. If I can get these things 
done, however, to my mind, I think there is 
next to a certamty that in five or six years 
I shall be in a hopeful way of atKiining a 
situation which I think as eligible for happi- 
ness as any one I know ; for I have alwaya 
been of opinion, that if a man bred to the 
habits of a farming lift;, wlio possesses a 
farm of good soil, on such terms as (mablei 
him easily to pay all demands, is not happy,, 







iiiiiiiiiiiiiliillllliiilllliilliiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiliililllinilli: 




94 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



he ou2:ht to look somewhere else than to his 
jitnauon for the causes of his uneasiness. 

" I bejc you will present my most respect- 
ful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remem- 
ber me to Mr. and Mrs. Eoscoe, and Mr 
Roscoe, Junior, the worth of whose kind 
attentions to me, when in Liverpool, I shall 
never forji^et. I am, dear sir, your most 
, obedient, imd much obliged humble servant, 

"Gilbert Buuns. 
« To Jamet Currie, M.D.,F.ll.S. 
Lioerpool." 



Q^ljE WMm, (l^ljililrrii, anli Srntljrr nf 
Sums. 

At the time of Burn's decease, his family 
consisted of his wife and four sons— Robert, 
born at Maucldine. in 1786; Francis Wal- 
lace, born at Ellisland, April 9, 1791 ; 
William Nicol, born at Dumfries, November 
"1, 1792; and James Glencairn. O:. the 
day of the poet's funeral, Mrs. Burns pro- 
duced a fiftli son, who received the name of 
INIaxwell, but did not long survive. Francis 
Wallace, a child of uncommon vivacity, died 
at the age of fourteen. Tlie three other 
■ons yet (1838) survive. Robert received a 
good education at the academy of Dumfries, 
was two sessions at the university of Edni- 
burgh, and one at the university of Glas- 
gow ; and in 1804 obtained a situation in 
the Stamp Ollice, London, where he con- 
tinued for twenty-nine years, improving a 
narrow income by teaching the classics and 
mathematics. It is remarkable, that during 
that long time he and his motlier, though on 
the best terms, never once met. In 1833, 
having obtained a superannuation allowance, 
he retired to Dumfries, where he now lives. 
He has the dark eyes, large head, and 
8v\ar(,hy complexion of his father, and 
possesses much more than the average of 
mental capacity. He has written many 
verses far above mediocrity ; but the bent 
of his mind is towards geometry — a study 
in whi(^h his father was much more ac- 
complished than his biographers seem to 
have been aware of. William and James 
went out to India on cadetships, and have 
each risen to the rank of major in the 
Company's service. " Wherever these men 
wander, at home or abroad, they are re- 
garded as the scions of a noble stock, and 
receive the cordial greetings of hundreds 
who never saw their faces before, but who 
iccount it a happiness to grasp, in friendly 
pressrre, the hand in which circulates the 
blood of Burus." — M'lMarmid's Picture of 
Vumffi'* 



Tlie only dependence of Mrs. Bums, after 
her husband's death, was on an annuity of 
ten pounds, arising from a benefit society 
connected with the Excise, the books and 
other moveable property left to her, and the 
generosity of the public. The subscription, 
as we are informed by Dr. Currie, produced 
seven hundred pounds ; and the works of 
the poet, as edited with singular taste and 
judgment by that gentleman, brought nearly 
two thousand more. One half of the latter 
sum was lent ou a bond to a Galloway 
gentkman, who continued to pay five per 
cent, for it till a late period. Mrs. Burns 
was thus enabled to support and educate 
her fiimily in a manner creditable to the 
memory of her husband. She continued to 
reside in the house which had been occu- 
pied by her husband and herself, and 
" never changed, nor wished to change 

her place." 
For many years after her sons had left her 
to pursue their fortunes in the world, she 
lived in a decent and respectable manner, oa 
an income which never amounted to more 
than £02 per annum. At length, in 1817, 
at a festival held in Edinburgh to celebrate 
the birth-day of the bard, Mr. Henry, (now 
Lord) Cockburn acting as president, it was 
proposed by Mr. Maule of Panraure (now 
Lord Panmure), that some permanent addi- 
tion should be made to the income of the 
poet's widow. The idea appeared to be 
favourably received, but the subscription did 
not till rapidly. Mr. Maide then said that 
the burden of the provision should fall upoa 
himself, and immediately executed a bond, 
entitling Mrs. Burns to an annuity of £50 
as long as she lived. This act, together 
with the generosity of the same gentleman 
to Nathaniel Gow, in his latter and evil 
days, must ever endear the name of Lord 
ranmure to all who feel warmly ou the sub. 
jects of Scottish poetry and Scottish music. 

Mr. Maule's pension had not been en- 
joyed by the widow vaore than a year and 
a half, when her youngest son James at- 
tained the rank of Captain with a situation 
in the commissariat, and was thus enabled 
to relieve her from the necessity of being 
beholden to a stranger's hand for any share 
of her support. She accordingly resigned 
the pension. Mr. M'Diarmid, who records 
these circumstances, adds in another place, 
that, during her subsequent yeiirs, Mrs. 
Burns enjoyed an income of about two 
hundred a-year, great part of which, as not 
needed by her, she dispensed in charities. 
Her whole conduct in widowhood wa" sucb 
as to seqire universal esteem in the towp 







f>^. 



ii{:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiihii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliiiiiiiiii 




liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinniiiiiii' 




ADDENDA. 



98 



where she resuled. She die(!, March 26, 1 In personal-aspect, Kohert Burns resemhled 



1834, in the G8th year of her age, and was 
buried beside her illustrious husband, in the 
mausoleum at Dumfries. (153) 

Mr. Gilbert Burns, the early companion 
and at all times the steadfast friend of 
the poet, continued to strugifle with the 
miserable glebe of Mossgiel till about the 
year 1797, when ke removed to the farm of 
Dinning, on the estate of Mr. Monteith of 
Closebum, in Nithsdale. Tlie poet had lent 
liim £200 out of the profits of the Edin- 
burgh edition of his works, in order that he 
might overcome some of his difficnltics ; 
and he, some years after, united himself to 
a Miss Breckonridge, by whom he had a 
family of six sons and five daughters. In 
consideration of the support he extended to 
his widowed mother, tlie poet seems never 
to have thought of a reckoning with him 
for the above sura. He was a man of 
sterling sense and sagacity, pious without 
asceticism or bigotry, and entertaining 
liberal and enlightened views, without being 
the least of an enthusiast. His letter to 
Dr. Currie, dated from Dinning, October 24, 
1800, shows no mean powers of composi- 
tion, and embodies nearly all the philan- 
thropic views of human improvement which 
have been so broadly realised in our own 
day. We aie scarcely more affected by the 
consideration of the penury under which 
some of his brother's noblest compositions 
were penned, than by the reflection that this 
beautiful letter was the effusion of a man 
who, v\ith his family, daily wrought long 
and laboriously under all those circuid- 
stances of parsimony which characterise 
Scottish rural life. Some years after, Mr. 
Gilbert Burns was appointed by Lady 
Blantyre to be land-steward or factor upon 
her estate of Lethington in East-Lothian, 
to which place he accordingly removed. 
Kis conduct in this capacity, during near 
twenty-five years, was marked by great 
fidelity and prudence, and gave the most 
perfect satisfaction to his titled employer. 
It was not till 1820, that he was enabled to 
repay the money borrowed from his brother 
m 1788 Being then invited by Messrs. 
Cadell and Davies to superintend, and 
improve as much as possible, a new edition 
of the poet's works, he received as much 
in remuneration of his labour, as enabled 
him to peifoim this act of duty. 

The mother of Robert and Gilbert Bums 
lived in the household of the latter at 
Grant's Braes, near Lethington, till 1820, 
when she ilied at the age of eighty-eight, 
and was buried in the churchyard of Bolton. 



his mother ; Gilbert had the more aquiline 
features of his father. The portrait of 
Robert Burns, painted by a Mr. Taylor, 
and published in an engraved form by 
Messrs. Constable and Company a fcv» 
years ago, bore a striking resemblance to 
Gilbert. This excellent man died at 
Grant's Braes, November 8, 1827, aged 
about sixty-seven years. His sons, having 
received an excellent education occupy 
respectable stations in society. One is 
factor to Lord Blantyre, and another i3 
minister of the parish of Monkton, near 
Ayr. 

Two sisters of Bums, one of whom is by 
marriage Mrs. Begg, yet isnrvive. They 
reside in the village gJ Tranent, East- 
Lothian. 



10 



'^c^lirrnnlctjiral Dpnrlnpmrat nf 5Enrn3. 

At the opening of the IMausoleum, IMarch 
1834, for the interment of Mrs. Bums, it 
was resolved by some citizens of Dumfries, 
with the concurrence of the nearest relative 
of the widow, to raise the cranium of the 
poet from the grave, and have a cast 
moulded from it, with a view to gratifying 
the interest likely to he felt by the stiulents 
of phrenology respecting its peculiar de- 
veloppient. This purpose was carried into 
effect during the night betv/een the 31st 
IMarch and the 1st April, and the f^jllowing 
ia the description of the cranium, drawn up 
at tlie time by Mr. A. Blacklock, surgeon, 
one of the individuals present : — 

" The craniel bones were perfect in every 
respect, if we ei^cept a little erosion of their 
external table, and firmly held together by 
their sutures ; even the delicate bones of 
the orbits, with the trifling exception of tlie 
OS unguis in the left, were sound, and un- 
injured by death and the grave. The 
superior maxillary bones still retained the 
four most posterior teeth on each side, in- 
cluding the dentes sapientite, and all 
without spot or blemish ; the incisores, 
cuspidati, &c.,had, in all probability, recently 
dropped from the jaw, for the alveoli were 
but little decayed. The bones of the face 
and palate were also sound. Some small 
portions of black hair, with a very few gTcy 
hairs intermixed, were observed while de- 
taching some extraneous matter from tlic 
occiput. Indeed, nothing could exceed the 
high state of preservation in which we found 
the bones of the cranium, or offer a fairer 
opportunity of supplying what has so long 
been desiderated by piireiwlogists — a 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



correct: model of our imTnoTtal poet's head : 
and ill Older to accomplis'i this in the most 
accurate and satisfactory manner, every 
particle of sand, or other foreign body, was 
carefully washed ofl', and tlie plaster of Paris 
applied with all the tact and accuracy of an 
experienced artist. The cast is admirably 
taken, and cannot fail to prove highly in- 
teresting to phrenologists and others. 

"Hai nig completed our intention, the skuU, 
securely enclosed in a leaden case, was again 
eoniinitted to the earth, precisely where we 
found it. 

Archd. Blacklock." 

A cast from the skull having been trans- 
nritted to the Phrenological Society of 
E(liid)urgh, the following view of tbe cere- 
bral development of Burns was drawn up 
by Mr. George Combe, and published in 
wnnection with four views of the crauuim. 
^W. and A. K. Johnston, Edinburgh) : — 

"l. DIMENSIONS OF THE SKULL. 

Inches. 

(Greatest circumference 22 j 

Fiom Occipital Spine to Individuality, 

over the top of the head . . 14 
„ Ear to Ear vertically over the top 

of the head 13 

„ Philoprogenitiveness to Individu- 
ality, (greatest length) ... 8 
, Concenft-ativeness to Compirison T\ 
„ Ear to Philoprogenitiveness . . 4| 
, „ Individuality .... 4| 
„ „ Benevolence ..... 5^ 

„ „ Firmness 65 

I, Destructiveness to DestructWe- 

iiess 5| 

til 

■'3 

5i 
41 



Secretiveness to Secretiveness 
Cautiousness to Cautiousue^ 

Ideality to Ideality 

Constructiveness to Constructive- 

ness 

Mastoid process to Mastoid Pro- 
cess 



4J 



DEVELOPEMENT OF THE ORGANS. 

Scale 
16 
20 
18 
20 
20 
18 



1. AmatiTeness, rather large . , 

2. Philoprogenitiveness, very large 

8. Conceiitrativeness, large . . . 

4. Adiiesiveness, very l?rge . . 

5. Combativeness, very large . , 

6. Destructiveness, large . , , 

7. Secretiveness, large 19 

i. Acquisitiveness, rather large . . 16 

9. Constructiveness, full .... 15 

10. Self-Esteem, large 18 

11. Love of Approbation, very large . 20 

12. Cautiousuesf, large 19 



13. Benevolence, very large . . . . 2C 

14. Veneration, large . . . , , • 18 

15. Firmness, full ..•<•.. 16 

16. Conscientiousness, fuU . • < • 15 

17. Hope, full li 

18. Wonder, large , . 13 

19. Ideality, large 13 

20. Wit, or Mirthfulness, full . . . 15 

21. Imitation, large 19 

22. Individuality, large 19 

23. Form, rather large ...,,. 16 

24. Size, rather large 17 

25. Weight, rather large 16 

26. Colouring, rftther large .... 16 

27. Locality, large 13 

28. Number, rather full 12 

29. Order, full - 14 

30. Eventuality, large 18 

31. Time, rather large 16 

32. Tune, full 1# 

33. Language, uncertain 

34. Comparison, rather large ... It 

35. Causality, large li 

" The scale of the organs indicates their 
relative proportions to each other; 2 i$ 
idiotcy — 10 moderate — 14 full — 18 large; 
and 20 very large. 

" The cast of a skull does not show the 
temperanipnt of the individual, but the por- 
traits of Burns indicate the bilious and 
nervous temperaments, the sources of 
strength, activity, and susceptibility; and 
the descriptions given by his contemporaries 
of his beaming and energetic eye, and the 
rapidity and impetuosity of his manifesta- 
tions, establish the inference that his braia 
was active and susceptible. 

" Size in the brain, other conditions being 
equal, is the measure of mental power. 'I'he 
skull of Burns indicates a large brain. The 
length is eight, and the greatest breadth 
nearly six inches. The circumference )« 22\ 
inches. These measurements exceed the 
average of Scotch living heads, inclnding the 
integuments, for which four-eighths of an 
inch may be allowed 

" The brain of Burns, therefore, possessed 
the two elements of power and activity. 

"The portions of the brain which manilest 
the animal propensities, are uucopirj.i-uij' 
large, indicating strong passioES, and great 
energy in action under their influence. Th« 
group of organs manifesting t!te domestic 
atfections (Amativeness, Philoprojgenitive- 
ness, and Adhesiveness), is large ; Philopro- 
genitiveness uncommonly so for a male 
head. The organs of Combativeness and 
Destructiveness are large, besjyeakiug great 



ADDENDA. 



9t 



heat ■sf temper, impatience, and liability to 
irritation. 

" Secretiveness and Cautiousness are both 
large, and would confer considerable power 
of restraint, where he felt restraint to be 
necessary. 

"Acquisitiveness, Self-Esteera, and Love 
of Approbation, are also in ample endowment, 
although the first is less than the other 
two ; these feelings give the love of pro- 
perty, a high consideration of self, and desire 
of the esteem of others. The first quality 
will not be so readily conceded to Burns as 
the second aiid third, which, indeed, were 
much stronger ; but the phrenologist records 
wliat is presented by nature, in full confi- 
dence that the manifestations, when the 
character is correctly understood, will be 
found to correspond with the developeiuent, 
and he states that the brain indicates con- 
siderable love of property. 

" The organs of the moral sentiments are 
also largely developed. Ideality, Wonder, 
Imitation, and Benevolence, are the largest 
in size. Veneration also is large. Con- 
Bcientiousness, Firmness, and Hope, are full. 

" The Knowing organs, or those of percep- 
tive intellect, are large ; and the organs of 
Reflection are also considerable, but less 
than the former. Causality is larger than 
Comparison, and Wit is less than either. 

" The skull indicates the combination of 
itrong animal passions with equally powerful 
niiiral emotions. If the natural morality 
had been less, the endowment of the pro- 
pensities is sufficient to have constituted a 
character of the mo«t desperate description. 
The combination u it exists, bespeaks a 
mind extremely subject to contending emo- 
tions — capable of great good, or great evil — 
and encompassed with vast difficulties in 
preserving a steady, even, onward course of 
practical morality- 

" In the com'bination of very large Philo- 
progenitiveness and Adhesiveness, with very 
large Benevolence and large Ideality, we find 
the elements of that exquisite tenderness 
and refinement, which Burns so frequently 
manifested, e\ en when at the worst stage of 
his career. In the combination of great 
Combativeiiess, Destructiveuess, and Self- 
Esteem, we find the fundamental qualities 
which inspired ' Scots wha hae wi' Wallace 
bleil,' and similar productions. 

"The combination of large Secretiveness, 
Imitation, and the perceptive organs, gives 
the elements of his dramatic talent and 
humour. The skull indicates a decided 
talent for Humour, but less for Wit. The 
public are apt to confound the talents for 



Wit and Humour. The metaphysic.an^ 
however, have distinj;uished them, and in 
the phrenological works their diS'erent ele- 
ments are pointed out. Burns possessed 
the talent for satire ; Destructiveuess, added 
to the combination which gives Humour, 
produces it. 

"An unskilful observer looking at the fore- 
aead, might suppose it to be moderate in 
size ; but when the dimensions of the ante- 
rior lobe, in both length and breadth, are 
attended to, the Intellectual organs will be 
recognised to have been large. The anterior 
lobe projects so much, that it gives an ap- 
pearance of narrowness to the forehead 
which is not real. This is the cause, also, 
why Benevolence appears to lie farther back 
than usual. An anterior lobe of this magni- 
tude indicates great Intellectual power. The 
combination of large Perceptive and Re- 
flecting organs (Causality predominant), witl» 
large Concentrativeness and large organs of 
the feelings, gives that sagacity and vigorous 
common sense, for which Burns was distin- 
guished. 

" The skull rises high above Causality, and 
spreads wide in the region of Ideality ; the 
strength of his moral feelings lay in that 
region. 

" The combination of large organs of the 
Animal Propensities, with large Cautious- 
ness, and only full Hope, together with the 
unfavourable circumstances in which he was 
placed, accounts for the melancholy and 
internal unhappiness with which Burns was 
so frequently afflicted. This melancholy wa« 
rendered still deeper by bad health. 

"The combination of Acquisitiveness, Cau- 
tiousness, Love of Approbation, and Con- 
scientiousness, is the source of his keen 
feelings in regarc. to pecuniary independence. 
The great power of his Animal Propensities 
would give him strong temptations to waste ; 
but the combination just mentioned would 
impose a powerful restraint. The head in- 
dicates the elements of an economical cha- 
racter, and it is known that he died free 
from debt, notwithstanding the smalluess of 
his salary. 

"No phrenologist can look upon this head, 
and consider the circumstances in which 
Bums was placed, without vivid feelings of 
regret. Burns must have walked the earth 
with a consciousness of great superiority 
over his associates in the station in which 
he was placed— of powers calculated for a 
fiir higher sphere than that which he was 
able to reach, and of passions which he 
could with difficulty restrain, and which it 
was fatal to indulge. If he had been placed 




^i^ 




tJFE OP BURNS. 



from infancy in the higher ranks of life, 
liberally educated, and employed in pursuits 
corresponding to his powers, the inferior 
portion of his nature would have lost part 
of its energy, while his better qualities 
would have assumed a decided and per- 
manent stiperiority." 

A more elaborate paper on the skull of 
Burns appeared in the Phrenological Journal, 
No. XLI., from the pen of Mr. Robert Cos. 
This gentleman endeavours to show that the 
character of Burns was in conformity with 
the full development of Acquisitiveness. 
"According to his own description," says 
Mr. Cox, " he was a man who ' had little 
art in ffiaking money, and stiU less in keep- 
ing it.' That his art in making money was 
Butficiently moderate, there can be no doubt, 
for he was engaged in occupations which his 
soul loathed, and thought it below his 
dignity to accept of pecuniary remuneration 
for some of his most laborious literary per- 
formanbes. He was, however, by bo means 
insensible to the value of money, and never 
threw it away. On the contrary, he was 
remarkably frugal, except when feehngs 
gtronger than Acquisitiveness came into jjlay 
— such as Benevolence, Adhesiveness, and 
Love of Aiiprobation ; the organs of all 
vhicb are very Ui^^ while Acquiaitiveaets 



is only rather large. During his rcsidenci 

at Mossgicl, where his revenue was not 
more than £7, his expenses, as Gilbert men- 
tions, ' never in any one year exceeded his 
slender income.' It is also well known tliat 
he did not leave behind him a shilhng of 
debt ; and I have learned from good autli o- 
rity that his household was much mere 
frugally managed at Dumfries than at Ellis- 
land — as in the former place, but not in the 
latter, he had it in his power to exercise a 
personal control over the expenditure. I 
have been told also, that, after his death, the 
domestic expenses were greater than when 
he was alive. These facts are all consistent 
with a considerable development of Acquisi- 
tiveness, for, when that organ is small, there 
is habitual inattention to pecuniary con- 
cerns, even although the love of indepen- 
dence and dislike to ask a favour be strong. 
The indifference with respect to money, 
which Burns occasionally ascribes to him- 
self, appears therefor'', to savour of affecta- 
tion—a failing into whiii he was not 
unfrequently led by Love of Approbation and 
Secretiveness. Indeed, in one of his letters 
to Miss Chalmers, he expressly intimates a 
wish to be rich." The whole of this essay 
U highly worthy of perusal by all who take an 
iuvereat in the character of the Ajrrshire bard 




^^ilii^ 




:Q 








oetirttl ^nrks nf Hakrt luim 



L.ofC. 




"niHiiiiiiniiiiiniiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii»iiiiiiiiiiii 





aBitrra's |5attital ^ntki 



^Iff IDpatli snll filing 'SJnrils nf 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE- 

AN ITNCC IlOUWinj' TAXE. (1 ) 

As Mailie, and her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. 
And owre she warsled in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam doytiu by. 
Wi' glowering een and lifted ban's. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it 
He gaped wide but naething spak — 
At length poor Maihe silence brak. 

" Oh thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case 1 
My dying words attentive hear, 
And bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep. 
Oh bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair 1 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
And let them wander at their will ; 
So may liis flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo' 1 

" Tell him he was a master kin'. 
And aye was guid to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him— 
M^ helpless lambs 1 trust them wi' him. 



"Oh bid him save their harmless Urea 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' kni\'«p'. 
But gie them guid cow-mUk thrir fill. 
Till they be fit to fend themuol ; 
And tent tiieiu didy, e'en and mom, 
Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' com. 

" And may they never learn the gaelB 
Of other vile wanrestfu' pets ; 
To slink through slaps, and reave and stcS' 
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, hke their great forbears, 
For many a year come through the shears > 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
And bairns greet for them when they're dead 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care ; 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit ,ome bavins in his breast ! 

" And warn liim, what I ■ndnna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
And nc to rin and wear his cloots. 
Like ither meuseless, graceless brutcc. 

" And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ; 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. 
But aye keep mind to moop andmcll 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessLn' wi' you baith : 
And when you think upo' your mither, 
Miad to be kin' to aue anithee, 



102 



BUENS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 



" Now, honest Hiighoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether. 
And, for thy pains, thou's get my blether." 
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head. 
And clo3'd her een amaug the dead. 



^nnr 3HaiIii;'s ^km. 

liAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes — 

Poor Mailie's dead 1 
It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neibor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 
Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry Mm ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A Mend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 
1 wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
And could behave hersel' wi' menoe ; 
I'll say't she never brak a fence. 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bsffdie, lanely, keeps the spenco 

Sin' Maihe's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howo^ 

Her living image in her yowe. 

Comes bleating to him, o\vre the Imowo, 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 
She was nae get o' moorland tipa, 
Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips. 
For her forbears were brought in shipo 

Frae yont the Tweed : 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than MaiUe dead. 
Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape! 
It maks guid fellows girn and gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For Mailie dead. 
Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
And wha on Ayr your chanters tunc 1 
Come, join, the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon— 

Uis Madie's dead 1 



(!^plstlp tn Danit 

A BROTHER POET. (2) 

January, 1784, 
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blai^ 
And bar the doors with driving snaw. 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sa bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want les3 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed prida. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being soar. 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands raat. 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lan's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, no fear ua" (3), 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
la only but to beg. (4) 

To lie in Idlns and bams at e'en 

Wlien banes are craz'd, and bluid ia thin. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a tasto 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smOe : 
And mind still, you'll iiiid still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Na mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther we can fa'. 

What though, like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where. 

But either house or hal'? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 

Tt see the coming year: 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



103 



On braea when we please, then. 
We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'U time till't. 
And sing't when we hae done. 
[t'B no in titles nor in rank ; 
It's no in wealth like London banli. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin' muckle mair ; 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To mak us truly blest ; 
If lia])piness hae not her seat 

And centre iu the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
Eut never can be blest : 
Nae treasures nor pleasures 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart aye's the part aye 
That makes us ri^ht or wrang. 
Think ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

\Vi' never-ceasing: toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way. 

As hardly worth their while ? 
AJas ! how aft, in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid. 
They riot in excess 1 

Baith careless and fearless 

Of either heaven or heU I 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale I 
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 

Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 
But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys tliat riches ne'er could buy : 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien' ; 
f e hae your Meg (5), your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me. 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me. 
And seta me a' oa flaiuo ! 



Oh, all ye pow'rs who rule aboTO I 
Oh, Thou, whose very self art lovo f 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
Tlie life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear 1 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive ray soul of rest. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, aU-seeing, 

Oh hear my fervent prayYi 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 
All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear. 

The sjTiipathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me \vith a friend, 

In every care and iU ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brighteno 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 
Oh, how that name inspires my style I 
The words come skelpin', rank and tiio, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus and the famous Nino 

Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus wUl limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stUt, and jimp, 
And rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then 
Shculd rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now. 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 



^Ititm In tijf fril. (6) 

Oh Prince 1 Oh chief of many throned pow'rc, 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war.— 

MiLION. 

Oh thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootiei, 
Wha in yon cavern giim and sootie. 

Closed mider hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootio. 

To scaud poor wretches I 
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 

E'en to a deil. 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like rae. 

And hear us squeel I 




B 



nw 




104 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame ; 
Far lienM and noted is thy name ; 
And tLo' yon lowin' heugh's tliy hame. 

Thou travels far ; 
And, faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 
Wliyles, ranging like a roaring lion, 
For prey a' holes and comers tryiu' ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'j 

I'irlin' the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryiii'. 

Unseen thou lurks. 
I've heard my reverend granny say. 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray. 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my granny summon. 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yout the dyke she's heard you bumuiiu', 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortriea comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 
Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
Tiie stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, hke a rasli-bush, stood in sight 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood hke a stake, 
WTieu wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quoick — 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On wliistUng wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, 
TeU how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
Tliey skim the muirs and dizzy crags, 

Wi wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leaguco 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countTa wives, wi' toil and pain, 
Alay plunge and plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hooord. 
And float the jinglin' icy boord, 
Then water kelpies haunt the foord, 

By yoiur direction ; 
And 'flighted trav'Uers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 



The bleezin', CKtat, mischievous munkics 

Delude his eyes. 
Till in some miry slough he simk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise, 

Wlien masons' mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Atf straught to hell 1 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'4 
And all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r (7) : 

Then you, ye auld snec-drawing dog I 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

And played on man a cursed brogue^ 

(Black be your fa !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a hizz, 

Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phia 

'Mang better foll^ 
And sklented on the man of UzE 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ne gat him i' your thrall. 
And brak him out o' house and haD, 
While scabs and botches did him gsjl, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked set ft» 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares and fetchiu' fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earso, 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're t'linkinl 
A certain bardie's rantin', drinkin'. 
Some luckless hour will send him Unkin' 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin', 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben I 
Oh wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinua keu — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'a for your aake i 



NEW .YEAR MOENmG SALUTATIOIT. 



101 



(ifllt Ml /armrr's 3!Irni-t^rar HInrning 
,f aliiiatinii in Ijis 5lulil Mm Baggie, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP O? 
COKN TO HANSEIj IN THE NEW YEAR. 

A GUiD New-year I wish thee, Maggie I 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-bacii.it, now, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could liae gaen hke oiiie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy. 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray ; 
He should been tight that daur't to raise thee 

Ance iu a day. 
Tliou ance was 1' the foremost rank, 
A liUy, buirdly, steeve, and swank. 
And set wtel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
And could hae flown out-owTC a stanl^ 

Like ony bird. 
It's now some nine-and-twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mere ; 
He gied me thee, o' toclier clear 

And fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

And thou was stark. 
Wlien first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottiu' wi' your minnie: 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funnie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie. 

And imco sonsie. 
That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
Wlien ye bure hame my bonny bride : 
And sweet and gracefu' she (hd ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 

For sic a pair. 
Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble^ 
And win tie hke a sauraont-coble. 
That day ye was a jiuker noble. 

For heels and win' ! 
Aui' ran them till they a' did wauble. 

Far, far behin' ! 
WTien thou and I were young and skeigh, 
And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wad prance, and snore, and skreigh 

And tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood aheigh. 

And ca't thee mad. 
When thou was corn't, and I was mellow. 
We took ihe road aye hke a swallow ; 



At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow 

For pith and speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 
The sma' droop-rumpl't, hunter, cattle, 
IMight aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle 

And gar't them whaizle: 
Nae wliip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or nazle, 
Tliou was a noble tittie-lan'. 
As e'er iu tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee and I, in aucht hours' gaui^ 

In guid j\Iarch weather, 
Ilae tum'd sax rood beside our han' 

For days thegither. 
Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskil^ 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 
And spread abreed tliy well-fiU'd brisket, 

Wi' pith and pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket. 

And slypet owre. 
When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep 
And threnten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied ihy c g a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 
In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae tliou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, and steu't,and breastit. 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 

Thou snoov't awa. 
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
Tliey drew me thretteen pund and twa. 

The vera warst. 
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wroughl; 
And wi' the weary warl' fought I 
And monie an anxious day 1 thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 
And think na, my auld trusty servan'. 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin'. 
And thy auld days may end in starvia'. 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stiinpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 
We've worn to crazy years thegither j 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit tliy tether. 

To some haiu'd rig, 
Whare ye may i obly rax your leather^ 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 








106 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



iallnrarra. (8) 



Dpoii that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downaiis (9) dance. 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 

On sprightly coursiers prance ; 
Or for Coleon the route is ta'en. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove (lOj, to stray and rove 

Amaug the rocks and streams 
To sport that night. 

Amang the bonny, winding banks. 

Where Doon rins, wimpiin', clear. 
Where Bruce (11) ance rul'd the martial 
ranks. 
And shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 

Together did convene. 
To burn their nits, and pon their stocks. 
And haud their Halloween 

•Fu' blythe that night. 
The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 
Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
heir faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 
Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 
Weel knotted on their garten, 
Bome unco blate, and some wi' gabs. 
Gar lasses' litarts gang startiu' 
Whiles fast at night. 
Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail. 

Their stocks (12j maun a' be sought ance; 
They steek their een, and graip, and wale. 

For muckle anes and straught aues. 
Poor hav'rel Will fdl aff ih.- drift. 

And wander'd thro' the bow-kail. 
And pou't, for want o' better shift, 
A runt was like a sow-tad, 

Sae bow't that night. 
Then, straught or crooked, yird or uaue. 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther : 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Byne coziely, aboon the door, 
Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To he that night. 
The lasses straw frae 'mang them a' 
To pou their stalks o' corn (13) ; 
But Kab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But b!T tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kuittliu' in the fause-house (14) 
Wi' him that night. 



The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet niti (1^8 

Are romid and r jund divided. 
And mony lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride. 

And jump out-owre the chimli* 
Fu' high that night. 
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But tliis is Jock, and this is me. 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owtc her, and she owre hio^ 

As they waud never mair part ; 
Till, fuff ! he started up the lum. 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 
To see't that night. 
Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt. 

Was brunt wi' primsic Mallie ; 
And Mary, nae doubt, took the drant. 

To be compared to Willie. 
Mull's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it burnt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing; 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 
Nell had the fause-house in her min/ 

She pits hersel and Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're sobbin'. 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view. 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou* 

Fu' cozie in the neux for't. 
Unseen that night. 
But IMerran sat behint their backa^ 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracky 

And sMps out by hersel' : 
She through the yard the nearest takj^ 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
Aud darklins graipit for the banks. 

And in the blue-clue (16) throws thea 
Right fear't that night. 

And aye she win't, and aye she swat^ 

I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ) 
But whether 'twas the deil lumsel. 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or v.hether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night 
Wee Jenny to her granny says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, granny ? 
I'll eat the apple (17) at the glassy 

1 gat frae uncle Johnny :" 



HALLOWEEN. 



107 



Bhe (uff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

III wTath she was sae ^ap'riu'. 
She iiotic't. iia, aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night, 
■Ye Uttle skelpie-limmer's face I 

I daur you try sic sportin', 
A.3 seek the foul thief ouie plac^ 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight I 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane lias gotten a fright, 

And hved and died deleeret. 
On sic a night. 
Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor— 

I mind't as well's yestreen, 
was a gilpey, then I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wat; 

And stuff was unco' green ; 
And aye a rantin' kirn we gat. 

And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 
0;ir stibble rig was Rab M'Graeo, 

A clever, sturdy fallow : 
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim w' wean. 

That lived in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed (18), I mind it weel. 

And he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsel'. 

He was sae sairly frighted 
That very night." 
Then up gat fechtiu' Jami^ Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience, 
Tliat he could sow hemp-seed a peck; 

For it was a' but nonsense. 
The auld guidman raught down the pock. 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk. 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him. 
And try'd that night. 
He marches through amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin : 
The graip he for a harrow taks. 

And hauls at his curpin ; 
And every now and then he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
And her that is to be my lass. 

Come after me, and draw thee 
As fast this night." 
He whistl'd up Lord Leonox' march. 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

A»i then a grane and gruntle; 
He bj his shouther gae a keek. 

And tumbl'd wi' o wiutle 

Out-owr« Uiat night. 



11 



He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam rinnin' out. 

And hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchiu Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till, stop — she trotted through them a'— ' 

And wha was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

INIeg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. 

To win three wechts o' naething (19) j 
But for to meet the deil her lane^ 

She pat cut little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets. 

In hopes to see Tam Kinples 
That vera nigriC. 
She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. 

And owre the threshold venturs; 
But first on Sawny gies a ca'. 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa'. 

And she cried, "L — d, preserve her !• 
And ran thro' midden hole and a'. 

And pray'd with zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair .advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice (20^ 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a surly auld moss oak 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 
Aff's nieves that night. 
A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As canty as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shawi^ 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, and by the caira. 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin. 
Where three lairds' lands met at a burn (21X 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 
Was bent that night. 
Whyles owre a hnn the burnie plays. 

As through the glen it whimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rayf, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
WTiyles cooyit underneath the ht&ea. 

Below the spreading hazel. 
Unseen that night. 
Amang the brackens, on the bratv 

Between her and the moon. 
The deil, or else an outler quey. 

Gat up and gae a croon ; 




miH 




103 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Poor Iicezy's heart maist lap the hoolj 

Near lav'rock height she jurapit. 
But mist a fit, and in the pool 
Out-owre the lusrs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane. 

The higgles three (22) are ranged. 
And every time great care is ta'en. 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha' wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mars' year did desire, 
because he gat the toom-dish thrico. 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracka, 

I wat they did nae weary : 
And unco tales, and funny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
Till butter'd so'ns (23), wi' fragrant lont, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' struut. 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. (24) 



a Wm\n Itglit. 



Poor nal<ed wretches, -wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the peltingr of the pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed 
sides, [defend you 

Your looped and ■windowed raggedness, 
From seasons such as these!— Shakspeaee. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shiverj thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glower 

Far south the lift. 
Dim-darkening thro' the flaky show'r. 

Or whirhng drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While burns, wi' suawy wreaths up- 
choked. 

Wild eddying swirl. 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, '' .} 
Down headlong hurl. 

listening, the doors and winnocka 

rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, [sprattle. 
And llirough the drift, deep-lairing 

Beneath a scaur. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless tiling. 
That in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 
What comes o' thee 1 



Wliare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering 
wing. 

And close thy e'e ? 
Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-staiu'd roost and sheep-cot 
spod'd 

My heart forgets. 
While pitiless the tempest wild 
Sore on you beats. 
Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffled, vievv'd the dreary plair ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive tra'U, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear thrs plaintive strain 
Slow, solemn, stole : — 
"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice unrepenting. 
Than heaven-illummed man on brother man 
bestows ! 
See stem oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip 

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land 1 
E'en in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear. 
With all the servile wretches in the rear^ 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 
Whose toil upholds the glittering 
show, 
A creature of another kind. 
Some coarser substance, unrefined. 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus 
vile below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throo, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there beneath Love's noble namei 
Can harbour dark the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
Tills boasted Honour turns away. 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, [ers } 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray. 
Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless 
breast, [rocking blast 1 

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the 
Oh y€ I who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves 
create. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPEAIK. 



109 



TTiink fsr a moment on his wretched fate, 
^Vhom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Dl satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, 
Stretched on his straw he lays himself 
to sleep, [wall. 

While tlirough the ragged roof and ch'^ky 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the iifty 
heap; 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt andpoor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view 1 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to reheve, how exquisit* the 
bliss ! " 
I hear nae mair, for chanticleer 

Shook off the poutheray suaw. 
And hailed the morning with a chee — 

A cottage-rousing craw. 
But deep thia truth impressed my 
mind — 
Through all his works abroad. 
The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



€mik in S. f Hprailt. 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (25.) 

April 1, 1785. 
While briers and woodbines budding green. 
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en. 
And mornuig poussie whiddia seen. 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown friea' 

I pray excuse. 
On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin'. 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 
And there was rauckle fun and jokin'. 

Ye need na' doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 
There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best. 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the hfe. 
I've scarce heard ought described sae weel. 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They taold me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't^ 



Then a' that ken't him round declar'4 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam neai't^ 

It was sae hue. 
That, set him to a pint of ale. 
And either douce or merry tale. 
Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himseP, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had a few matches. 
Then up I gat, and swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and gniti^ 
Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke back 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 
But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Araaist as soon as I could spell, 
1 to the crambo-jingle felt ; 

Tho' rude and rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sell. 

Does weel eneugh. 
I am nae poet, in a sense. 
But just a riiymer, like by chance. 
And hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter 1 
Wliene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 
Your critic folk may cock their nose. 
And say, " How can you e'er propose. 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

To mak a sang ? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foe% 

Ye're may be wrang. 
Wliat's a' youi jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns and stools; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars f 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools. 

Or knappiu-hammers. 
A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asse^ 

Plain truth to speak; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassui 

By dhit o' Greek ! 
Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub and miie 

At pleugh or cart. 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 
Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Fergusson's the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be^ 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me. 

If I could get it 1 



110 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends I believe are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist. 
But gif ye want ae friend that's trSfB* 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 

As ill I like my faults to tell ; 

But friends and folk that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me ; 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

But Mauchline race (26), or Maucbline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. 

If we forgather. 
And hae a swap o' rhymin'-waie 

Wi' ane auither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. 
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter. 

To cheer our heart ; 
And, faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa ye selfish war'ly race, 

WTia think that bavins, sense, and grace, 

Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I diuna like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Vi\o hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others." 
Ocane to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle. 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me tissle. 

Who am most fervent. 
While I caa either sing or whissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



April 21, 1785. 

WniLE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake. 
And pownies reek in plengh or braik. 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor. 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Ratthn' the corn out-owTe the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 



Their ten hours bite. 
My awkwart muse sair pleads and beg» 

I woidd na write. 
The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie. 
She's saft at best, and something lazy. 
Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 

This month and mair, 
That trouth, my head is grown right dizzi^ 

And sometliing sair." 

Her dowfF excuses pat me mad : 

" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jadl 

rU write, and that a hearty blaud. 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye atfront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 
ShaU bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts^ 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In ierms sae friendly. 
Yet ye'U neglect to shaw your parts. 

And thank him kindly ?* 
Sae I gat paper in a blink. 
And down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, " before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
And if ye winna mak it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it \ * 
Sae I've begim to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neithei^ 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 
My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and catp^ 
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up yoiu: moovland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ; 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp — 

She's but a b-tch ! 

She's gien me raonie a jirtand fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 

As lang's I dow ! 
Now comes the sax and twentieth simmej, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 
Do ye envy the city gent, 
Bchint a kist to lie and sklent. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent 

And muckle wame. 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 




1W> 




TO WILLIAM SPMPSON]. 



1.1 



Or is't the paug:h1y, feudal Thane, 
Wi' rultl'd sark and glancing- cane, 
Wlia thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane. 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets atf are taen, 

As by he walks ? 
Oh Thou wha gies us each gTiid gift I 
Ciie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
Then turu me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna sldft, 

lu a' their pride ! 
Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain' o' hell be rich and great," 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 
For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

And none but he ! " 
Oh mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 
Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl. 
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl. 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys. 

In some mild sphere, 
itill closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



^i Wiilim f [impsnn], 

OCHILTREE. (27) 

May, 1785, 
1 GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
rho' i maun say't, I wad be silly. 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. 

Your flatterin' strain. 
But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelius sklented 



On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it 

I scarcely excuse ye. 
My senses wad be in a creel, 
Shoidd I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer ehiel, 

A deathless name. 

(Oh Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstaue hearty 

Ye E'nbrugh gentry ; 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 

Or lassies gie my heart a screed. 

As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(Oh sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 
Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain. 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winnahain, 

But tune their lays. 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise 

Nae poet thought her worth his whU^ 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay hke some uiiken'd-of-isle ' 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boi\ 

Besouth Slagellan. 
Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a hft aboon 
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings. 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

NaeLody sings. 

Til' lUissus. Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
But, WiUie, set your fit to mine. 

And cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shin* 

Up wi' the best ! 
We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells. 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
Her banks and braes, her dens and della^ 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tell, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace' name what Sc* ttish blood 
But boils up in spring-tide flood ' 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
S:ill pressing onward, red-wat shod. 

Or glorknu died ! 
1* ^ 




r^. 







112 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Oh sweet are Coila's haiiirlig and woods, 
M'hen lintwhites chant amaiig the buds, 
Aud jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, 

Tlieir loves enjoy, 
While thro' tlie braes the crushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray : 
Or blinding drifts wild furious fle^ 

Davk'ning the day ! 

Oil nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life and light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night 1 

ITie muse, nae poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander. 

And no think lang ; 
Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder, 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The war'ly nice may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive; 
Let me fair nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, " my rhj-me-composing brither 1" 
We've been owre lang unkeiin'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither. 

In love fraternal ; 
May envy wallop in a tether. 

Black tiend, infernal ! 

Wliile highlandinen hate tolls and taxes : 
While moorlan' heads like guid fat braxies ; 
Wliile terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice. 

In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCKIPT. 
My memory's no worth a preen ; 
I ha 1 amaist forgotten clean. 
Ye bade me write you what they mean. 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to light. 

In days when mankind were but callana 

At grammar, logic, and sic talents. 

They took nae pains their speech to balance. 

Or rules to gie. 
Bit ipak their thoughts in plain braid lallaua. 

Like you or me. 



In thae auld times, they thought the motXh 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed past their viewing^ 
And shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new one. 

Tliis past for certain — \mdisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt i^ 
Till cliiels gat up and wad confute it. 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
Aad muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beult, 
Wad threap auld folk the tliink misteukj 
For 'twas tlife auld moon turned a neuk. 

And out o' sight. 
And backlins-comin', to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied — it was affirmed ; 

The herds and hirsels were alarmed : 

The rev'reud grey-beards rav'd and stonu'd 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than then: auld daddiei. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 

Frae words and aiths to clours and nicka^ 

And mony a fallow gat his licka, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricki^ 

Were liang'd aud brunt. 

Tliis game was play'd in monie lands. 
And Auld Light caddies bure sic hands. 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sandi 

Wi' nimble shanks. 
Till laurds forbade, by strict commands. 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But New Dght herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowi^ 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'U find ane plac'd ; 
And some their New-Light fair avow. 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleat n* 
Their zealous herds ar* vex'd and sweatin'j 
Mysel' I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word aud write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loon» ! 
Some Auld Light herds in neebor town* 
Are mind't in thinns they ca' balloon*, 

To tak a flight. 
And stay ae month among the moons 

And see them right. 




DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 



\U 



Guid observation they will gie them j 

And when the auld moon's gaim to lea'e 

iliem. 
The liindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi'tkeia. 

Just i' their pouch, 
Aud when ths New Light billies see tlie^a. 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter;* 

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



Dfatl; anir Dr. Inrnlinnk. 

A TRUE STORY. (28) 

Some books are lies frae end to end. 
And some great lies were never penn'd ; 
E'en ministers they hae been keiin'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid at times to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture^ 
But this that I am gaun to tell, 
"Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's tlie deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he ne nearer comes oursel 

's a muckle pity. 
The clachan yill had made me canty— 
I was ua fou, but just had plenty ; 
1 stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
And hiUocks, stanes, and bushes kenned aye 

Frae ghaists aud witches. 
The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumuock hills out-owre : 
To count her liorus, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel; 
But whether sha had three or four, 

I could na tell. 
I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin' down on Willie's mill (29)^ 
Betting my staff wi' all my skill. 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my wHl, 

I took a bicker. 
I there wi' something did forgather. 
That put me in an eerie swither ; 
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 
Its stature seem'd lang Scotcla ells twji, 
"The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For dent a wame it had ava; .> 



And then, its shiinks. 
They were as thin, as sharp and sma'. 

As cheeks o' braiiks. 
" Guid e'en," quo' I ; " Friend, hae ye beea 
When other folk are busy sawin' ? " [mavvm", 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 

But naething spak ; 
At length says I, '•' Friend, whare ye gauo, 

Will ye go back?" 
It spake right howe — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd." Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; 

But tent me, billie — 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith. 
See, there's a gully !" 
"Guidman,"quo'he, "put up your whittle^ 
I'm no designed to try its mettle; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 
To be mislear'd; 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 
Out-owre my beard." 
"Weel, weel !" says I, "a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, and sae we're gree'tj 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat- 
Come, gies your news ; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate. 

At mony a house." 
" Ay, ay !" quo' he, and shook his head, 
" It's e en a lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

And choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread. 

And sae maun Death. 
" Sax thousiud years are near hand fled 
Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 
Aud mony a scheme in vain's been laid^ 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade. 

And faith he'll waiu- me. 
" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 
Deil mak his king"s-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan(30)k 

And ither chaps. 
The weana haud out their fingers laughin', 

Aud pouk my hips. 
" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Horubook wi' his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them both no worth a f — t j 
Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, Fve hundreds slaicj 

But deil-ma-care. 
It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mail. 



''9iiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiini;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii^'ii"i""i'"ii"'i""i'''i""^ 



114 



BTTRXS'S rOETICAL WOEKS. 



" HovnTivooIr was by m* ready art. 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That wheu I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I'aearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood the shock; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles. 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

•Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
True sal-marinura o' the seas; 
The farina of beans and peas. 

He has't in plenty; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

* Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkaU o' midge-tail clippings. 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole (31) now,' 
Quo' 1 ; "if that thae news be true. 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonny, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnny 1" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be tiU'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trencli'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

"WTiare I kill' d ane a fair strae death. 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath. 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 

By drap and pill. 

"An honest wabster to his trade, 
Vhasewife'stwa nieves were scarce well-hred. 
Gat ^ippence worth to mend her head, 

^^'\\en it was sair; 
Tie wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mail. 



■ A countra laird had taen the hattt^ 
Or rome cunnurring in liis guts; 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

And pays him well — 
The lad, for twa guid giramer-peta. 

Was laird himscl. 

" Tliat's just • swatch o' Hornbock' 
Tiuis goes he on from day to day. 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slajj 

An's weel paid for't; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' jirey 

Wi' his curs'd dirt : 

" But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't. 
I'll nail the self conceited sot 

As dead's a herrin' : 
Neist time wc meet, I'll wad a groal^ 

He gets his fairin' ! " 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith: 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel'. 

And sae did Death. 



Itfi! M\\ /ait. 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret buncc, with poison'd crusi 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varyins on the pigeon ; 
And" for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocbist a-la-modk. (11.) 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn. 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

And snuff the cauler air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muiio, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ' ; 
The hares were hirplin' down the fui% 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 
Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a sceue sae gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpm' up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' blacs. 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-hack. 

Was in the fashion shining, 
Fu' gay that day 




THE HOLT F.llR. 



lift 



The t^Ti app^sr'd like iigters twin, 

Iji leature, form, and claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, lang, and thin. 

And sour as ony slaes : 
riie ihird cam up, iiap-step-an'-lowp. 

As iiglit as ony lambie, 
And \vi' a curcliie low did stoop. 

As soofl as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

WV Ijonnet ?.ff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me; 
Pm sure I've seen that bonny face. 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughin' as she spak. 

And taks me by the hands, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feek. 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

■My name is Fim — your cronie dear. 

The nearest friend ye hae; 
And this is Superstition here. 

And that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair. 

To spend an hour in dattin' : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair. 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Qu(th I "With a' my heart, I'll do't; 

1 U get my Sunday's sark on, 
And meet you on the holy spot — 

Faith, we'se hae fineremarkiu ' !'* 
Then I gaed hame at crovvdie-time. 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, from side to side, 

Wi' mouie a wearie body. 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Ga<.'d hoddin by their cottars; 
Tliere, swankies young, in braw braid-claith. 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
Tlic lasses, skelpin' baretit, thrang. 

In silks and scarlets glitter ; 
Wi sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang. 

And farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

Wlien by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glow'r black bonnet throws. 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show ; 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin'. 
Some c.yrying dails, some chairs, and Etools, 

And some are busy blethriu' 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'ra, 
Aiid screen oiu country gentry. 



There, racer, Jess (33), and twa-three wh-r 

Are blmkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittliu' jauds, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare necl^ 
And there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguardhig frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

Here sum are thinldn' on their sinig 

And some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyi'd his shine^ 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wr screw'd-up grace-proud facet; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang wiukui' on the lasses 
To chairs that day. 

Oh happy is that man and blest! 

(Nae wonder that it pride him !) 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes bes^ 

Comes clinlcin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her nech 

Au's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkeun'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion. (34) 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'JMang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' Moodie' s face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 
Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi rattlin' and wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's starapiu' and he's jurapin' ! 
His lengthened chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeal and gestures. 
Oh, how they tire the heart devout, 

like cantharidian plasters, 
^ On sic a day ! 

But hark ! the tent has cliang'd its Toiot'» 

There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his caulJ harangues {35^ 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars and barrels 
A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine. 

Of moral powr's and reason ? 
His English style and gesture fin* 

Aie a' clean out o' aeasoa. 







216 



BTTRNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 



like Socrates or Atitonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
Tlie moral man he does detiiie, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 
bi giiid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit i^i>^. 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
Bee, up he's got the word o' God, 

And meek and mim has view'd it. 
While Common Sense (o7J has ta'en the 
road, 

Aud aff, and up the Cow2:ate (38), 
Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller (39) neist the guard relieves. 

And orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

And thinks it auld wives' fables; 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a mause. 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altlio' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hattiins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 
Now butt and ben the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; 
While thick and thrang, aud loud and 
lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that, in the end, 

la like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 
liCeze rae on drink ! it gies us msur 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles mt, it waukens lair. 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep^ 

Or ony stronger potion. 
It never fails, on drinking deep. 

To pittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads and lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body. 
Sit round the table weel content. 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk. 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

Aud foriuin' assignations 

To meet some day. 
But now the L — d'a am trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin'. 
And echoes batk n-turn the shouts — 

Black Russell (40/ is uasparin' : 
His piercmg words, like Highlan' swordl^ 

Divide the joiuta and marrow; 



His talk o' hell, wliare devils dweB. 

Our vera sauls^ does harrow (4 1; 

Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, nnbottom'd, boundless pit, 

FiU'd fou o' lowm' brunstane, 
Wha s ragin' flame, and scorchin' he»t^ 

Wad melt the hardest wliun-stauei 
The half asleep start up wi' fear. 

And think they hear it roariu'. 
When presently it does appear 

'Twas but some neebor snoria* 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre long a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yUl 

^Vhen they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caupi^ 

Amang the furms and benches ; 
And cheese and bread, frae women's lapfl^ 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

And dauds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

Aud sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife j 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmeu, about the grac^ 

Fi-ae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

And gi'es theni't like a tether, 
Fa' lang that day. 

Waesuck ! for hira that gets nae la3% 

Or lasses that hae nathing 1 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
Oh wives be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonny lads ye wanted, 

And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a iay ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow. 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a biinK, 

Till lassess trip their shoon : 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and dnnl. 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaac^ 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine; 

There's some are fou' o' brandy; 
And many jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandy. 
Some ititer cuty. 






^B- 



d^^ 



yVvj- 



MmM 



^^1^^ 




THE ORDINATION. 



11? 



Q;ljp (DrhnafiDtt. 



••For SPDoe they little owe to fruiral Iloav'n — 
To pleasi; tue mob they hide the little giv'n." 
(42) 

Kilmarnock wat^ters fidge and claw. 

And poui* yourcreesiiie nations; 
And ye wlia leather rax and draw. 

Of a' denominations, (43) 
Swith to the Laiifh Kirk, ane and a'. 

And there tak up your stations ; 
Tlieuaffto Be.>;bie's (44) in a raw. 

And pour di\ine libations. 

For joy tliis day. 
Cnrst Common Sense, that imp o' hell. 

Cam in \vi' Jlaj^^ie Lauder (45) ; 
But Olipliant aft made lier yell. 

And Russell sair misca'd lier; 
This day M taks tlie flail. 

And he's the boy will bland her! 
He'll clap a shan<;au on her fail. 

And set the bairns to daud her. 
Wi' dirt this day. 
Mak haste and ttirn king- David owie. 

And lilt wi' holy clangor; 
0' double verse come gie us four. 

And skirl up the Bangor : 
This day tlie Kirk kicks up a stoitre, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 
For Heresy is in lier pow'r, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 
Come, let a proper text be read. 

And touch it atf wi' vigour. 
How graceless Ham (4Ci) leugh at his dad, 

M Inch made Canaan a nigger; 
Or Fiinieas (47) drove the murdering blade, 

AA i' wh-re-abhorring rigour; 
Or Zipporali (48), the scauldiu' jad. 

Was hke a bliiidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 
There, try his mettle on the creed. 

And bind him down wi' caution. 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
And gie hiin o'er the flock, to feed. 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them suHicient threslun', 

Spare them nae day. 
^^\v, auld Kihrarnock, cock thy tail. 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt lowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty; 
For lapfii's large o' gospel kail 

Shall till thy crib in plenty. 
And runts o' grace the pick and waif 

No g^'ea by way o' dainty. 
But ilk^ (lay. 



Nae mair by Babel's streams ive'll weep^ 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hiiigour nddle? up to sleep, 

I^ike baby-clou„ a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the iiegs, wi' tunefu' clieap 

And o'er the thairras be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. 

And a' like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day j 

L»ng Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 

Has shor'd the Kirk's u:idoia% 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn. 

Has proven to its niin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencaim, 

He saw mischief w as brewin' ; 
And like a godly elect bairu 
1 He's wal'd us out a true ane. 

And sound this day. 

Now, Robertson (49), harangue nae mair 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or tiy the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear. 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netlierton (50) repair. 

And turn a carpet-weaver 

AtT-haud this day. 

Mutrie (51) and you were just a matcn. 

Me never had sic twa drones : 
Aidd Hornie did the I,aigh Kirk watci» 

Just like a wiiikin' baudrons : 
And aye he catched the tither WTCtcb, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maim detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swiiigeiii through the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tail d cat she plays I 

1 vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish faoa^ 

Grunts out some Latin ditty, 
And Common Sense is gaun, she say8, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie (52) 
Her plant this day. 
But there's IMorality himsel'. 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how lie gies the tithcr yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin and fell. 

As ane were peeliii' onionc ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hfiH 

And banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 
Oh, happy day ! rejoice, rejoice! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

*«ikall here nae mair tind quarter: 



lis 



BUENS'S rOirnCAL WOKKS. 



M ■ — , Kiis.?eH, are the boya. 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse. 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 
Come, bring tlie tither mutchkin in. 

And here's, for a conchision. 
To every NewLiglit (53) mother's son, 

FroEi this time forth, Confusion : 
Jf niair tliey deave us wi' their din. 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We 11 light a spunk, and every skin 

We'll rin them atf in fusion, 
like oil some day. 



^n Samrs linitjj. (54) 

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the souU 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much ! " — Blair. 

Dear Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief, 
that e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Xe surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was jHief 

Against your arts. 
For me, I swear by sun and moon. 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 
That auld capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrirapit stature. 
She's turn'd you aff, a human Creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man. 
Just now I've taen the fit o' ryhme. 
My barmie noddle's working prime. 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time. 

To hear what's comin' ! 
Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought) for needfa' 

cash; 
Some rhyme to court the country clash. 

And raise a din; 
For me, an ain* I never fasb — 

I rhyme for fun. 
The star that rules my luckless lot. 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
And damn'd my fortune to the groat; 

But in requit. 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

O' couutra wit. 



This while my notion 'a ta'en a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries " Hoolie 
I red you, honest mai^ tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your foUy. 

There's itiier poets much your betters. 
Far seen iu Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd then 
debtors 

A* future age»; 
Now motlis deform ui shapeless tatters. 

Their unknown pages." 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
And teach the lanely heights and howea 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 

Then, all unknown, 
rU lay me with th' inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale? 

Just now w^e're hving sound and hale. 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield; 
For, ance that tive-and-forty's speel'd. 
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field, 

Wi' creepiu' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near tbo 

gloamin'. 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin'. 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel dear, deluding woman I 

The joy of joys ! 

Oh life ! how pleasant in thy morning. 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
Cold-pausiug caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



llf 



We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Uftiiiindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves ! 
And tho* the puny wounil appear, 

Short while it grieves. 
Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
For which they never toil'd or swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, hapl}% eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, tliro' foul, they urge the race^ 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others', like your humble servau', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
To right or left, eternal swervin'. 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure and starvin,' 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning? 

E'en let her gang! 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, 

* Tho' I should wander terra o'er. 

In all her climes. 
Grant me but this, I ask no more. 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds. 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie' fine braw claes to fine life guards. 

And maids of honour ' 
And yill and whisky gie to cairds, 

Untd they scouner. 

A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd ci^ 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

Wliile ye are pleased to keep me hale^ 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Ue't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face. 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behiati my lug or by my nose ; 



I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose^ 

I rhyme away. 
Oh ye douce folk, that !iv e by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — oh fool ! fool ! fool 1 

How much unlike ; 
Your heart's are just a standing poo^ 

Your lives a dyke ! 
Nae hair-brain'd. sentimental trace^ 
In your unletter'd nameless faces I 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, rara-stam boys, 

Tlifi rattling squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — ■ 

— Ye ken the road. 
Wliilst I — but I shall baud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Wliare'er I gauff. 



^{lE Mii Sspggars.— a imhls. (sb) 

RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird. 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
"When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyt* 
And infant frosts begin to bite. 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie Nancy's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quartiiig and laughing. 

They ranted and they sang; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red ragis^ 
Ane sait weel brac'd wi' mealy baga, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets wan»— 

She blinket on her sodger : 
And aye he gies the tozie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her grwdy gab 

Just hke an aumos disU (otj) 



12 



120 



BURNS' S POETICAL W0EK8. 



Ilk smack stilly did crack still. 
Just like a cadger's whip, 

Then stag-gering and sw angering 
He roaied this ditty up. 



Tune — Soldiers' Joy. 
J am a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, [come ; 

And show my cuts and scars wherever I 
This here was for a wench, and that other in 

a trench, [the drum. 

When welcoming the French at the sound of 

Lai de dandle, &c. 
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, [of Abram (57) ; 

When the bloody die was cast on the heights 
I served out my trade when the gallaSt game 

was play'd, [sound of the drum. 

And the Morro (58) low was laid at the 

Lai, de daudle, &c. 
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries (59), [limb ; 

And there I left for witness an arm and a 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot (GO) 

to head me, [drum. 

I'd clatter ou my stumps at the soiuid of a 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
And now the' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and le^. [bum. 

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 

my callet. 
As when 1 us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks, [a home, 

Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, [a drum. 

I could meet a troop of hell at the souud of 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leun. 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 

He skirl d out " Encore !" 
But up arose the martial chuck. 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldier Laddie. 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men; 



Some one of a troop of iragotins wiae JlJ 

daddie. 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodgei laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy. 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
But the godly old chaplain left him in the 
lurch, [cluirch ; 

The sword I forsook for the fake of the 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body^ 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c. 
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c. 
But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in desp.iir, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy. 
My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
And now I have liv'd — I know not how long 
And still I can join in a cup and a song ; 
But whilst with both hands I can lioid tn« 

glass steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk. 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They miiid't iia wha the chorus teuk, 

Betiveen themselves they were sae busy; 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy. 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Tlien turn'd, and laid a smack on Grizzie, 

Syue tuned his pipes wi' grave grimace, 

AIB. 

Tone — Auld Sir Symon. 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session : 
He's there but a 'prentice I trow. 

But I am a fool by profession. 
My grannie she bought me a beuli. 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I my talent misteuk. 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 
For drink I would venture ray neck, 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 
But what could ye other expect. 

Of ane that's avowedly daft P 



THE JOLLY BEGGAES. 



121 



I «nce was tied up like a stirk; 

For civilly swearings and quaffin'; 
I ance was abus'd in the kirk. 

For touzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport. 
Let naebody name \vi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n, I'm taught, i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad- 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The chiel f bat's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L — li i he's far dafter than I. 



RECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wlia keut fu' weel to cleek the sterling. 
For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in niony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
B\it weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Ilit'lilaudman. 



Tune — O an ye were deid Guichnan. 

A Highland lad my love was born. 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan. 
My gallant braw John Highlaudman. 



Sing, hey my braw John HighlandmanI 
S.ug, he, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philabeg and tartan plaid. 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
Tlie ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
A.nd liv'd bke lords .ind ladies gay ; 
For a Lawland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highlandmaa 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 
But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
Aiid bound liim iu a dungeon iasX : 



My curse upon them every one, 

They'ye hang'd my braw John HighlaadmaB, 

Sing, hey, &c. 
And now a widow, I must mourn, 
TKb pleasurj's that will ne'er returj; 
No conifort but a hearty can. 
When 1 think on John Highlandmiii, 

Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddk. 

Her strappin' limb, and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd na highei) 
Had hol'd liis heartie like a riddle. 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on hainich, and upward e'e 
He croon 'd his gamut, one, two, tlirw 
Then in an arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' allegretto glee 

Uis giga solo. 



Tune — Whistle oe'r the lave di 

Let me ryke iip to dight that tear. 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then you every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play^il. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be thera 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o-svre the lave o't. 

I am, &C. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
And sun oursells about the dyke. 
And at our leisure, when ye like. 
We'll whistle ow're the lave o't. 
I am, &C. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' char!a% 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a sic harms. 
May whistle ow're the lave o't. 
I am, &C. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy cair'i 
As weel as poor gut-scraper ; 

He taks the fiddler by the beard, 
ijid draws a roosty rapier— 



122 



BUENS S POETICAL WORKS. 



He swoor by a' ■was swearing worth, 

To speet him hke a plher, 
Unless lie wail from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 
ViV ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended. 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face. 

And sae the quarrel ended. 

But tho' his little heart did grieve 
AV!ieu round thj tinkler prest her. 

He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 
When thus the caird address'd her : 

AIR. 

Tune — Clout the Caudron, 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've tvavell'd round all Christian ground 

In this ray occupation : 
I've ta'en the gold, I've beer. enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when oflf I march'd 

To go and clout the caudron, 

I've tae'n the gold, &c. 
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and capriu,' 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp, 

And" by that dear Kilbagie (61), 
1/ e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. 

May 1 ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, &C. 

KECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sail. 

And partly she was drunk. 
Bir Violino, wilh an air 

Tiiat show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair. 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft. 

That play'd a dame a sliarie, 
Tlie fiddler raked her fore and aft, 

Ahint thecl ioken ca^e. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' hmping wi' the spavie. 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 

O' boot that night 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tlio' Fortune sair upon him Uid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 



He had nae wish but — ^to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted; 
He had nought but — to be sad. 
And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night 
AIR. 
Tune — For a" that, and a' that. 
I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentle folks, and a' that : 

But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a* that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a* that; 
I've lost but aue. I''^ ;~wa behin/ 
I've wife eneugn /or a* that. 
I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams. 
My Hehcon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 
Great love I bear to a' the fair, 

Their humble slave, and a' that; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, &c. 
In raptures sweet, thia hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love and a' that : 
But for how lang the flee may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 
Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 

They've ta'en nie in, and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here s the »ex 
I like the jads for a' that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as muckle's a' that; 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till't for a' that 

RECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard— and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a wonder of applause. 

Re-echo' d from each mouth : 
They toom'd thek pocks, and pawu'd Kieb 

duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. 

To quench their lowin' drougth. 
%"hen owre again, the jovial thrang. 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
Ke rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



HAN VAS MADE TO MOURN. 



128 



Ttne — Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasset, 
St* ! the smoking bowl before us, 

*\lark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

Aud iu raptures lee us sing. 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest 

What is title ? what is treasure t 

What is reputation's care ' 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tia no matter how or where ! 
A tig, &C. 
With the ready trick and fable. 

Round we wander all the day ; 
And at night in barn or stable. 

Hug our doiies on the hay. 
A tig, &c. 
Does the train-attended carriage 

Through the country lighter rove T 
Does the sober bed of marriage 

"Witness brighter scenes of love I 
A tig, &C. 
Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goes; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A tig, &c. 
Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets 1 

One and all cry out — Amen I 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glarious feast 1 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 



JHan mas 31Iak k Tihm. (62) 

A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One ev'ning, aa 1 wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man w hose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was fiirrow'd o'er with years, 

Aud hoary was his hair. 

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" 

Begd!i the rev'rend sage : 
•Does l.hirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or yo ithful pleasure's rage ? 



Or haply, prest with cares and woes^ 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, wit'n me, to moum 

The miseries of man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Wliere hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen you weary winter-sutt 

Twice forty times return. 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mom a. 

Oh man, while in thy early year% 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious houia^ 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime^ 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind. 

Supported is his right ; 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn ; 
Tlien age and want — oh! ill-match'dpiill- 

Show man was made to mouin. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 
In pleasure's lap carest ; 

Yet, think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly blest. 

But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 
All WTetched and forlorn ! 

Thro' weary life this lesson learn- 
That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwo\ en with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves 

Regret, remorse, and shame ; 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands moum 1 

See yoiufer poor, o'e-iabour'd wight; 

So aliject, mean, and vile, 
Wlio begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

Aud helpless offspring moum. 

U I'm design'd r>n lordling's slavis— 

By Nature's law designed — ■ 
W^hy was aa independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 



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121 



BUBNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow moura ? 

Vet, let not this too much, my son. 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of humau-kiud 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

Oh Death ' the poor man's dearest friend- 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure tora ! 
But, oh ! a blest rehef to those 

That weary-ladeu mourn ! " 



^n a Blniisf, 

ON TtJBNIIfO UP HER NEST WITH THE PIOUGH, 

Kovemher 1785. (63.) 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie. 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need ua start awa sae hasty, 

AVi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murdring pattle ! 
I'm truly sorrow man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social nniou. 
And justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

And fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles. but thou may thieve ; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimea icker in a thrave 

's a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' « i' the laive. 

And never miss't ! 
Tliy wee bit housie, too, in ruin 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewm' ! 
And naethiug, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green 
A>d bleak December's winds ensnin*, 

Baith snell and keen ! 
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste. 
And weary winter comin' fast, 
Aud ojzie here, beneath the blast, 

'Ihou thought to dwell. 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 



Tliat wee bit heap 6' leaves and stibbta^ 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy troublsi 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

And craureuch caiddl 

But, Jlousie, thou ait no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice and mea^ 

Gang tft agley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief asiJ paij^ 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me 1 
The present only loucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e^ 

On prospects drcarl 
And fcrrard, tho' I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



flu Elision. 

DUAN FIRST. (64) 

The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play (65)» 
Aud hunger'd ma\ikin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
Wliile faithless snaws ilk step betray 

"W'hare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence (661, right pensivelie^ 

I gaed to rest. 

Tliere, lauely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That till'd w i' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggiu*. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backw ard iiius'd on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' jnime^ 

And done nae thing. 
But stringin' hethers up in rhymes 

For fools to suig. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a marked 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarUI, 

L i a' th' amount. 




-^ 



M9> 




THE visio^r. 



m 



r started, mntt'Tinj, blockhead! coof 1 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith. 
That I henceforth woukl be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath— 

Wlien, click ! the string the snick did draw; 
And, jee ! the door gaed to the \va'; 
Aiid by my ingle-lovve I saw. 

Now bleeziu' bright, 
A tight, outlandisli hizzie, braw. 

Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-forra'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild giea ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token, 
And come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildiy-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honovir. 

Down flow'd her robe a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae thought, sae taper, tight and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 
Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
Acd seem'd, to my astonish'd view 

A well-know i land. 
Here, rivers in the sea ware lost ; 
Tliere, mountains to the skies wefe tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd tlie coast 

With surging foam 
Tliere, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 
Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore. 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

vVith seeming roar. 
Low in a sandy valley spread, 
Au auueut borough rear'd her head (67); 



StOJ, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race, 
Tc ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair. 

Or ruins pendent in the air. 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dan^ 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowng transport feel. 

To see a race (68) heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their sutiiron foes. 

His Coujitry's Saviour (69), mark him weU \ 
Bold Richardton's (70) heroic swell; 
The chief on Sark (71) who glorious fell 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade (72) 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismayed 

They strode along. 

Tliro' many a wild romantic grove (73), 
Near many a liermit-fancy'd cove 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love). 

In musing mood. 
An aged judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-stnick reverential awe (74), 
The learned sire and son I saw (75), 
To Nature's God and Natiu-e's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw; 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward (76) I well could spj 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on. 
Where many a patriot-name on sMgh 

Ajtd hero shoae. 

DUAK SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stire^ 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair ; 
A whisp'riug throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet. 
When with an elder sisters's ai; 

She did me greet. 



126 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" All hail ! my own inspired bard! 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Tlius poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such regard 

As we bestow. 

Kn 3w, the g\ eat genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command^ 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Theur labours ply. 

They Scotia's race among them share; 
Some tire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some raise the patriot on to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Seme teach the bard, a darling care. 

The tuneftd art. 

'Jfong swelling floods of reeking gore^ 
Tliey, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

And when the bard, or hoary sag^ 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild, poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 
Hence Fidlarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays ; ' 
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung. 

The sceptic's bays. 
To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind. 
The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The artizan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclra'd. 

The various man. 
XThei-'. yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threai'ning storm some, strongly, rein: 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

M'ith tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd-traia, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 
Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Eiime grace the maiden's artless srnile; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains. 
And mat ^ his cottage-scenes beguila 

His cares and pains. 
Borne, bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at laige man's iuiaat race^ 



To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning graoei 

A guide and guard. 
Of these am I — Coila my name (77) J 
And this district as mine I claim. [fame, 
Where cnce the Campbells (78), diefs el 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy eml)ryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 
With future hope, I oft would gaM^ 
Fond, on tliy little early ways. 
Thy rudely caroll'd, ciiiming phras^ 

In uncouth rhymea^ 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays. 

Of other times. 
I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 
Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With bouudless love. 
When ripen'd fields, and azure skies. 
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise^ 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's s\\ elling rise 

In pensive walk. 
■WTien youthful love, warm-blushing, stifl»2, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 
I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious Mray, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from He?ven. 
I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coda's plaint. 

Become thy frieads. 
Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melthig throe. 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm ou the bairt. 







^ife 



i^lf^r 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii»iiiiiiiiiiiii :ii;iiiiiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



THE AUTHOR'S EAKIsTlST CRY. 




127 



Yet, an beneath the unrivall'd rose. 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throwi 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn lirows, 

Adowii the glade. 
Tlien never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in tliy hnmble sphere to shine ; 
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic bard. 
To srive my counsels all in one — 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of man. 

With soul erect; 
And trust, the universal plan 

Will all protect. 
And wear thou this" — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head : 
The polisli'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ffljp !3nflinr*5 (Earnest Crij Hnil f^ratjpr 

TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN 
TILE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (79) 

" Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! 
How art thou lost !"— Parody o:i Milton. 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wlia represent our brughs and shires, 
Aud doucely manage onr affairs 

In parliament. 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 
Alas ! my roopit Muse is hearse ! 
Y our honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce' 
To see her sittin' on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
And scriecliin' out prosaic verse. 

And like to brust ! 
Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland and me's in great affliction, 
E'er sui' they laid that curst restriction 

On aqua vitaj ; 
And rouse them up to strong conviction. 

And move their pity. 

Btand forth, and tell yon i^eraier youth (80), 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell hiui o' mine and Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble : 
Hhe rauckle devil blaw ye south. 

If ye dis:$emble 1 



Does OTiy great man grt'mch and gloom? 
Speak out, and never fas your thoom ! 
Let posts and pensions sink or sooin 

AV them wha grant 'em* 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gathrin' votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and lidge your back; 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle, 
Her mutchkin stoup as tooni's a whusle; 
And d-mu'd excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler, right behint her. 
And cheek-for-chow, a chuttie viutuer, 

Colleagunig join. 
Picking her pouch as bare as \i inter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves. 
And plundered o' her hnidniost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight. 

Trod i' the mire out o' sight ! 

But could 1 like Montcronieries fight (81), 

Or gab like Boswell (S2), 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tijjit. 

And tie some hose well 

God bless your honours, can ye see't. 
The kind, auld, cautie carhn greet. 
And no get warmly to your feet. 

And gar them hear it. 
And tell them, with a patriot heat. 

Ye winua bear it ? 

Some o' ynn nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period and pause, 
Aud wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' !^ault Ste[)lien's wa's 

Auld Scotlaud's wrangs. 

Dempster (83), a true blue Scot I'se warran' 
Thee, aith-detestnig, chaste Kilkerran (84) 
And that glib-gabbet Highland baron. 

The Laird o' Graham (85); 
And ane, a chap that's d-nm'd auldfarraa, 

Duudas his uaiue. (8UJ 










1^ 



3URNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Erskine (87), a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campb(;lls, Frederick (88) and Hay (89); 
Aud Livingstone, the baiild Sir Willie ; 

And mouie itliers, 
Whcm aiUil Demosthenes or Tully 

iMay'u own for brithera. 
Bee' sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented. 
If bardies e'er are represented ; 
I ken if that your sword were wanicd, 

Ye'd lend a hand. 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. (90) 
Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith! I'll wad my now pleugh-pettle. 

Ye' 11 see't ere laug, 
(She'll teach you wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 
This while slie's been in crankvis mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie!) 
And now she's like to run red-wud 

About her whisky. 
And L — d ! if ance they pit her till\ 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
Aud dark and pistol at her belt, 

Ijhe'll tak the streets. 
And rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 
For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair. 
And straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
And to the muckle house repair, 

'\V'i' instant speed. 
And strive, wi' a' your mt aud lear. 

To get remead. 
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie! 
An send him to his dicing box 

And sportiu' lady. 
Tell yen guid bluid o'auld Boconnock's (91), 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks (92), 
And drink his health in auld Nanse Tin- 
tock's (93) 

Nine times a-week. 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocka (94), 

Wad kindly seek. 
Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He'll need ua fear their foul reprof'ih. 

Nor erudition, 
■fon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. 

The CoaUtion. 

Auld Scotland 1-as a raucle tongugj 
Stale's i\xi*, a devil wi' a rung; 



And if she promise auld or younf 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strange 

She'll no desert. 

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your mither's heart support yej 
Then, though a miliister grow dorty. 

And kick your place, 
Ye'U snap your lingers poor and hearty. 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
lu spite o' a' the thievish kaes. 

That haunt St. Jamies! 
Your humble Poet sings and prays, 

Wliile Kab his name ia. 

POSTCRIPT. 

I,et half-starVd slaves in warmer skiea 
See future wines, rich clust'riiig, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er eu\ie3, 

But blytlie and frisky. 
See eyes her freeborn, martial boys 

Tak aff their whisky. 

WHiat tho' their Phcebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charnja^ 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarmk. 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Tlieir gvm'a a burthen on their shoulther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring awithei 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're atf, a'throwther, 

To save their skin. 
But bring a Scotsman frae his hiU, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
Say such is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease himj 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

And when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathiu' lea'a him 

In faint huzzas ! 
Sages their solemn een may steek 
And raise a philosophic reek. 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason, 
Scotland, my auld, respected mitherl 
Tho' wlules ye moistify your leather. 




St33TCH DRINK. 



129 



I Jl B lare ye sit, on craps o' heathej 
Ye tine your dam ; 

Ifteedoia and whisky gang theg-ither !— 
Take alf your dram 1 



^rnlrji Drink. 

••Gie him strong' drink, until he wink. 

That's sinkin^j: in despair ; 
And li(iuor gnid to fire his bl\ id, 
ThU's prest w' grief and ca e ; 
There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er 
Till he forgets his loves or de> ts. 
And minds his griefs no nic .'e." (95.) 

Solomon's Proverb, xxsa, 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fraoas, 

'Bout vines, and wmes.and dr.'ken Bacchui, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us. 

And grate o <r lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch beer cau mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

Oh thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink; 
"Whetlier thro' wiraplin' worms thou jink. 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious faem, 
laspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name I 
Let hi'sVy wheat the haughs adorn, 
And ait* s;it up their awnie horn. 
And peas and beans, at e'en or mom. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 
Oa thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food! 
Or tumblin' in the boiliu' flood 

Wi' kail and beet ; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood. 

There thou shines chief. 
Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
Wteu heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin' glee, 
Thoii clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Tliou strings the nerves o' Labour j'air, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 
Aft clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head (96) ; 
Yet ijumbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
Bii w ee diap parv-itch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. (97) 



Tliou art the hlie o' public haunts ; 

Bit thee, what were our fairs and rants? 

It ?'u godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd, 
^en gaping they besiege the tents (93^ 

Are doubly fir'd. 

fhat merry night we get the com in. 
Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn ial 
Or reekin' on a new-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
ajid just a wee drap sp'ritual burn va. 

And gusty sucker ! 

WTien "Vulcan jries his bellows breath, 
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith. 
Oh rare! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like death 

At ev'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong forehammer, 
TUl block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumbliu' cuifs their dearies slight | 

Wae worth the name 1 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or plack frae theau 

When neebors anger at a plea. 
And just as wud as wT.id can be. 
How easy cau the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel I 
Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
And hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! 
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hasi 

0' half his days ; 
And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish aidd Scotland we'd. 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackless devUs hke mysel. 

It sets you iU, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfti' wines to meH 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels roimd his blather wrench. 
And gouta tonoeut turn inch h^ inci^ 



13C 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Wlia twists his ^nmtle wi' a gluuch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' whisliy punch 

\Vi' honest men ! 
Oh whisky ! soul j' plays and pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's ^ratcfu' thanks 1 
When wanting tliee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
rhou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — ! 
Thee, Ferintosh ! oh sadly lost • (99) 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now cohc grips, and barkin' hoast. 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa! 
Thae cnrst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize ! 
Hand up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice 1 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — nd drinkers, 
Fortune ! if thou'U but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
And rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Du-ccts thee best. 



OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

*' My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them aye thegither; 
The llig-ld Riuhteous is a fool, 

The Ripid Wise anither ; 
The cleanest corn that e er was dight 

May hae some pylcs o' cart' in; 
8o ne'er a fellow-creuture' slight 
For random fits o' daffin." 

tjuLOJioN— liccles. vii, 16. 

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heaped hap"Pr's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 
Hear me, ye venerable co-e. 

As counsel for poor m^'tals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaiket Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, e ireless sakes. 

Would here propoiiC defences, 
Heir donsie tricks, then- black mistake*^ 

Their failings and mischauces. 



Ye see your state wi' theirs compu'X 

And shudder at the nifter. 
But cast a moment' s fair regard, 

W^iat maks the mighty ditfei ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 
Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulM^ 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your taU, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But ill the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It maks an unco lee-way. 
See social life and glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrified, they're groWB 

Debauchery and drinking : 
Oil would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to stat^ 

D-mnation of expenses ! 
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames^ 

Tied up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'dlad, convenience snuj, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

IV re aibhns uae temptation. 
Then gently scar, your brother m?i». 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Though they may gang a kennin' v-» ^"^ 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dti^. 

The moving why tk?y do it : 
And just as lamely can ye ma.k, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 
WTio made the heart, 'tis He sJons 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows e.ach chord— its variou? tol^ 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compHt*^ 

But know not what's resisted. 



Cam lamsnii's djlrgij. 

** Ab honest man's tbe noblest work of God.' 
Popx. 

Has anld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? 
Or great M'Kialay (100) tlirawn his l.eelP 
Or Kobertson (101) again grown wcel. 
To preach and readP 



XIBSPONDENCY. 



ISI 



• Na, wa ir tliaii a' ! " cries ilka cliie! — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Kilmarnock l&ng may grunt and p^ane. 
And sig;li, and sob, and greet her lane, 
And deed her bairns, man, wife, and weam. 

In mourning weed ; 
l"o death, she's dearly paid the kane — 

Tam Samson's dead 1 
The brethren o' the mystic level 
J] ay hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel. 

Like ony head ; 
Death's gi'en. the lodge an unco devel — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
When winter muffles \ip his cloak. 
And binds the mire like a rock; 
Wheu to the lochs the curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wlia will they station at the cock ? — 

Tam Samson's dead ? 
He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score — 

Tam Samson's dead 1 
Now safe the stately sawmont sail. 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, — 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple taU, 

And geds for creed. 
Since dark in death's lish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead 1 
Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; 
Ye maukius, cock your fud fu' braw, 

IVithouten dread; 
Tour mortal fae is now awa' — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Tliat woefu mourn be ever mourn'd 
Saiv him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient bum'd, 

Frae couples freed; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd! — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns cam' down like waters. 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry aald wife, greetin', clatters, 

Ta\n Samson's dead ! 
Owre many a weary hag he linipit. 
And aye the tither shot he thunipit. 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
MTien at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He re«l'd hia wonted bottle-swagger. 



But yet he drew tie mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-dim d heed ; 
" L — d. five • " he cried, and owre did 
stagger- 
Tarn Samson's dead ! 
nk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan 'd a father; 
You auld grey stane, amang the lieather, 

Marks out his head, 
Wliare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blcthe^ 

Tam Samson's dead 1 
There now he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest !— 

Tam Samson's dead! 
'Wlien August winds the heather wave^ 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave. 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther and lead. 
Till echoe answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Ileav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be I 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead I 

EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots spare him I 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye wju near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

v3o. Fame, and canter like a filly 

Thro' e the streets and neuks o' Killie (102^ 

Tell ev'ry social, honesi billy 

To cease his grievin'. 
For yet, unskaiih'd by death's gleg guUi*, 

Tam Samson's livin' (103) I 



Drspntttnri}. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with cai% 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh ; 
Oh life ! thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary roail. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view. 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thn/'( 

Too justly I may fear 1 



13 



132 



BURNS'S POETICAL VOEKS. 



Still ciring, despairinff, 

ilust be my bitter doom; 
My woes liere shall close ue'er 
But with the closing tomb ! 
Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard I 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied. 
Yet while the busy menus are phed. 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst 1, a hope-abandou'd wigh^ 

Uulitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, a>< justliug. 

Forget each grief and pain; 
I listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vaui. 
How blest the solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgettmg, all-forgot, 

"Within his humble cell, 
Tlie cavern wild with tangling roota^ 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply to his ev'niug thought. 

By unfreipieiited stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising and raising 

His thouglits to heav'n on high. 
As wand'ring, raeand'ring, 
He views tiie solemn sky. 
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play tiie part ; 
Tlie lucky moment to nnprove. 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, aad joys. 

Which 1 too keenly taste, 
Tfie solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or iiuinan love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate '. 
OJi! enviable, early days. 
When dancing tlumghtless pleasure's maze. 

To care, to guil*; unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times. 
To feel the foU.es, or the crimes. 

Of others or my own ! 
Tn tiny elves that guiltless sporty 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ve little know the ills ye coart. 
When manhood ■« your wish I 
1 he losses, the crosses. 

That a/"tive man engage I 
Ihe fears all. the tears all, 
Oi dim jcdiiiing age 1 



INSCRIBED TO KOBERT AIKIN, ESQ. ^10-^ 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys and destiny obsoura; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disduintul smil(EL 
The short and simple annuls of the poorT" 

(105)-Grat. 

My loved, my honour'd, much respected 

friend. 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 

With honest pride I scorn each selfish 

end : [praise : 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 

To you I sing, hi simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd 

scene ; [ways ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

What Aitkeu in a cottage would have 

been ; [there, 1 ween. 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 

November chdl blaws loud wi' angry 

sough ; [close ; 

The siiort'ning winter- day is near a 

The miry beasta retreatmg frae the 

pleugh ; [repose : 

Tlie black'ning trains o' craws to their 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 

Collects his spades, liis mattocks, and his 

hoes, [spend. 

Hoping the mom in ease and rest to 

And weary, o'er the moor, liis course does 

hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee thuigs toddlin, stacher 
thro' [and glee. 

To meet their dad, wi' flichtenu' uoisb 
His wee bit mgle, blinkin' boniuly. 
His clean hearth-staue, his thriftie 
wifie's smile, 
Tlie lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' liis weary kwugh and care 
beguile, [his toil. 

And makej liim quite forget his labour and 
Be!y\e, the elder bairns come drapping in. 
At service out aiiiang the farmers roun'. 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some 
tentie rin 
A caiinJe errand to a neibor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jeuny, woman 
grown, [e'e, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her 
Comes liame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gowu. 
Or deposit her snir-won penny fee, 
Tb help her pareuta dear, if they in Laick 
ihijf be. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY KIGHT. 



I3J 



With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters 
meet, [spiers : 

And each for other's weelfare kindly 
The social hours, swift-wiiig'd, unnotic'd 
fleet ; [hears ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or 
The ]>arent3, partial, eye their hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation forward points the ^^ew, 
Tlie mother, wi' her needle a.\ d her shears. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel'g 
the new ; 
rbe father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's com- 
mand, 
Tlie younkers a' are warned to ohey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent 
hand, [play ; 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jaiik or 
"And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
And mind your duty, duly, morn aud 
night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore His counsel and assisting 
might : Lord aright ! " 

They never sought in vain that sought the 

But, hark! & rap comes gently to the 
door, [same, 

Jenny wha kens the meaning o' the 
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor. 
To do some errands, and convoy her 
hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, aud flusn her 
cheek, [name, 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inqiiires his 
While Jenny hattiins is afraid to speak ; 
eel pleas'd the mother heai's it's uae wild 
worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 
ben ; [e'e ; 

A strappin youth ; he taks the mether's 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, 
and kye. [joy, 

Tlie youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 
But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel 
behave ; [spy 

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, cati 
\^■|lat makes the youth sae baslifu' an' 
sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected 
hke the lave. 

Oh happy love ! — where love like this is 

found ! [compare ! 

01,1 heart-felt raptures! bUss beyond 



I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 
And sage experience oids me this de- 
clare — [spare, 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

"Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the lender 

tale, [the ev'ning gale." 

Beneath the milk-wliite thorn that scenti 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretcli ! a villain ! lost to love aud 

truth !— 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art 

Betray sweet Jenny's imsuspecting 

youth ? [smooth ! 

Curse on his perjnr'd arts! dissembling 

Are honour, virtue, conscience,all exil'd? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 

child ? [traction wild ? 

Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 

But now the supper crowns their simple 

board, [food ; 

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 

The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yout the hallan snugly chows her 

cood : [mood, 

The dame brings forth, in complimental 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- 

hick, fell. 

And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal witie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a tovvmoud auld, sin' liut wa* 

i' the bell. 

The clieerfu' supper done, wi' serious face^ 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zioa 
glide. 
He wales a portion with judicious care; 
And "Let us worship God ! " he says, with 
solemn air. 
They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise ; [aim : 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbliug measures 
rise, [name. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 
Or nolile Elgin beets the heaven-ward 
flame. 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills ar« 
tame ; [raise ; 

The tickl'd ear ro heart-felt raptures 
Nae unison hae they with our Creatof'* 
praise. 




\34 



BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. 



The pricsl li ke father reads the sacred 
page — [high ; 

How Abram was the friend of God ou 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaveu's avenging 
ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic lire ; 
"r other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
theme — (shed ; 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name, [head : 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his 
How his first followers and servants sped. 
The precepts sage they wrote to many « 
laud : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
Ind heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eter- 
nal King, [prays: 
The saint, tlie father, and the husband 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
wing," (106) [days: 
That thus tliey all shall meet in future 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
KTiile circling time moves round in an eter- 
nal sphere. 
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion*! 
pride, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide. 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
The pow'r, inceus'd, the pageant wiU de- 
sert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart. 
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of 
the soul ; [enrol. 

And in his book of life the inmates poor 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 
The parent -pair their secret homage pay. 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
quest, [nest. 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'roua 
And decks tl e lily faur in flow'ry pride, 
Wou'd, in the w»y liis wisdom sees the 
belt; 



For them and for their little ones pre vide; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's gran- 

deur springs, [abroad : 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 

Princes and lords are but the breath of 

kings, [God ! " 

" An honest man's the noblest work of 

And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

"V\'hat is a lordliug's pomp ? — a cumbroua 

load, [kind 

Disguising oft the wretch of human 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness retin'dJ 

Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. 
Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content ! [prevent 

And oh! may Heaven their simple lives 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile 1 
Tlien, howe'er crowns and coronets be 
rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of lire aiouud their mucli- 
lov'd isle. 

Oh Tliou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
That streani'd through Wallace's un- 
daunted heart. 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward !) 
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot 
bard, [guard ! 

In bright succession raise, her ornament aiui 



3fn a 311nuntaiii Daisij. 

IN TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THB 
PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. (107) 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonuie gem. 
Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet. 
Bending thee 'maiig the dewy wcct I 

Wi' speckl'd breast. 
When up-ward-springing, blytlie, to gwej 

The purphug tast. 




me 




EPISTLE TO A TOUXG FRIEND. 



ISS 



Cauld blew thebitter-bitinn: north 
Upon tliy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd abo\ e the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flauntinis^ flowers our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adom the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawe bosom sun-ward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head. 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betray 'd. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
TUl billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink 1 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stem Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom. 



MAY, 1796. (108) 

t IiANG bae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you. 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Thau just a kind momento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang; 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang. 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 



Yc'll try the world fii' soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'U find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye: 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Evn when your end's attained; 
And a' your views may come to nought^ 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'U no say men are villains a' : 
The real, harden 'd wicked, 
! W^ha hae nae check but human law, 
1 Are to a few restricked 
I But, och '. mankind are unco weak. 
And little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 
It's rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune s strife. 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life. 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neibor's part. 

Yet hae no cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han, your story tell, 

"When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursei 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursei as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek through ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge iti 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden tat^ 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Nor for a train-atteiKlant, 
But for the glorious privdege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To baud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pauap— 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keeps its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 

IS* 




-i^ 







139 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The ^eat Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature. 
But still the preaching can forbear. 

And e'en the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'ei with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity otfended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure'* riag, 

Rehgion may he blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded; 
But when on life we're tempest driVn, 

A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Ueav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

A-dieu ! dear, amiable youth 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
in ploughman phrase, " God send you 
•peed," 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you better reck the rede 

Thau ever did th' adviser ! 



1 Dfiiratinn in (Panin Saiiiilinn, <!:sii 

(109) 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
A fleeching, fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, and ca' you gnid. 
And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 
because ye're surnara'd like his grace; 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
iSet up a face, how I stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
■Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! — sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, lord be thankit, 1 can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, 1 can beg ; 
Sae 1 shall say, and that's nae ttatt'rin*. 
It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
The Foet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only he's no just beg\in yet. 

The Patron («ir, ye maun forgive me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me). 
On cv'ry hand it will aluwed be, 
Ue'B just — uae better than he should be. 



I readily and freely grant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his aim he winna tak it, 
Wliat ance he says he winna break It } 
Ought he can lend he'll no rcfus't 
Till aft his goodness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wiang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father. 
He does na fail his part in either- 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature: 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks. 
Or hunter's wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word and deed, ■ 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tiou ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Seal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake tliat taks the door; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstaiie. 
And hand their noses to the grunstaue^ 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ! 
No matter — stick to sound believing! 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile 

graces, 
Wr weel-sprcad looves, and lang wry facea ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengtben'd groan. 
And damn a' parties iiut your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

Oh ye wha leaves the springs o' Calvin, 
For guuilie dubs of your am delviu' 1 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror 
When Vengeance draws tlie sword iu wrath. 
And iu the lire throws the sheath; 
When Rum, with his sweeping besom. 
Just firets, till heav'u comiuissiou gies 

hiiu : 
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moana. 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groaua 1 

Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divnity comes cross me. 
My readers stdl are sure Co loss tue. 




A DEEAM. 



m 



Sc, Sir, ye see 'twas fyae daft vapour. 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
"Wlieu a' my woaks 1 did review. 
To dedicate them, Sir, to you : 
Because (ye need iia tak it ill) 
I thought them somethinj; lik yourseL 

Then patronise them wi' your favour. 

And your petitioner shall ever 

( had amaist said, ever pray, 

J)Ut that's a word I need na say: 

For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't ; 

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r. 

That kens or hears about you. Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's growling^ bark. 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ! 
Jlay ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
Are by their canty fireside risen : 
Five bouiiie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel. 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel 1 
Jlay health and peace, with mutual ray«, 
Siiine on the ev'niug o' his days. 
Till iiis wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
\Mieii ebbing hfe nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mouruful rites bestow." 

I will not wind a lang conclusion. 
With complimentary eff"usion : 
But vhilst your wishes and endeavours 
Ave blest with fortune's smiles and favour*, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 
But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 
That irou-hearted carl. Want, 

Attended in his grim advances. 

By sad mistakes and black mischances, 

AV hile hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly 

him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your liumble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Ileav'a 1 
Wliile recollection's power is giv'n. 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
Tiie victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
SI\ould recognise my master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then. Sir, your hand — my frieud and bro- 

te]. 



"Thouffhts, words, and deeds, the statnta 

blames with reason : [treason." (110) 

But surely dreams were ne'er inflicted 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! 
May Heaven augment your bliatCI^ 

On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 
A humble poet wislies ! 
My hardship here, at your levM^ 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae birth-day drcssci 
Sae tine this day. 
I see ye're complimented tlirang. 

By many a lord and lady ; 
" God save the king 1 " 's a cuckoo Stuf 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a \ enal gang, 

\\\ rhymes weel-turn'd and ready. 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wraug^ 

But aye unerring steady, 
Ou sic a day. 
For me ! before a monarch's face^ 

Ev'ii there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor plac^ 

Am 1 > onr humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace. 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's moiiy waur been o' the raci, 

And aiblius aue been better 

Than you this day. 
'Tis very true, my sov'reign king. 

My skill may weel be doubted ■ 
But facts are cliiels that winna ding; 

And downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft and clouted. 
And now the third part of the stringy 

And less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 
Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire^ 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 

Wad better fiU'd their station 
Thau courts you day. 
And now ye've gien -auld Britain peaoe| 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece. 

Till she has scarce a tester; 
For me, thank God, my life's ii leasee 

Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith ! i fear, that, wi' the geese^ 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' tLe craft some day. 







138 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes lie enlarges, 
(And Will's a true guid fallow's get (111) 

A name not envy spairges). 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

Ai d lessen a' your charges; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge yourbonnie barges (112) 
And boats this day. 

Adien, my liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
And may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Uueen, with due respect. 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 
Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies you ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent. 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 
For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

And curse your folly sairly. 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales. 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Cliarlie (113), 
By night or day. 
jfet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
€o, ye may doucely till a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver ; 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone. 

Few Ijeltcr were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

lie was an unco shaver 

For nionie > day (114.) 
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg (115), 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, . 
.Altho' a ribbon at your lug, 

Wal been a dress coinpletcr: 
As yc disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get awife to hug. 

Or, trouth! y^'ll stain the mitre. 
Some luckless day. 
loung, royal Tarry Breeks (116), I learn, 

Ye've lately come atiirawt her; 
K glorious galley (117), stem and stem, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 



But first hang out, that stie'll discisn 

Your nymeneal chartet. 
Then heave aboard your gripjile airn 

And, large upon her quarter, 

Come fuU that ilay. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a". 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak ye guid as well as brair, 

And gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant eye; 
And German gentles are but sma'. 

They're better just than want ay» 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' life be thro'. 

It may be bitter sautet : 
And I hae seen their coggie fou. 

That yet hae tarrow't at it; 
But or tlie day was done, I trovr. 

The luggeu they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



a laril's Ipitaplj. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to suool, 

I.et him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 
Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among; 
That weekly this area throng, 

Oh, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 
Is there a man, whose judgment clear. 
Can others teach the course to steer. 
Yet rims, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting te^ 

Survey this grave. 
The poor inhabitant below, 
M'as quick to learn, and wise to know 
And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd liis name! 
Peader, attend — whether thy sold 
Soar's fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self- control 

Is wisdom's root. 



THE T"^A DOGS. 



in 



A TALE. (118) 

"ItWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle 

That bears the name o' Auld King Coil (119), 

Upon a bouiiie day in June, 

Wken wearing through the afternoon, 

Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 

Forgather'd aiice upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cresar, 
'Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Wliare sailor's gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree. 
The tient a pride — nae pride had he; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressia'. 
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's raessin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though ere sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on staues and hillocks wi' 1dm. 
The tither was a ploughman's colhe, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend and comrade had him. 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang (120), 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 
He was a gash and faithful tyke. 
As ever lap or sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; 
His gaucie tale, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 

Nae do'ibt but they were fain o' ither, 
A lid unco pack and thick thegither : 
^Vi' social nose whyles snuff' d and snowkit. 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour' d awa in lang excursion. 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' dartin' weary grown. 
Upon a kiiowe they sat them down. 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

CESAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
And when the gentry's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
Uia coals, liis kaiu, and a' his stenta; 



He rises when he likes hire Bel; 

His flunkies answer at the belj ; 

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse j 

He draws a boiinie silken purse 

As lang's my tail, whare, through tht stceE% 

The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae mom to e'en its nought but toiling. 

At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 

And though the gentry first are stecliiii. 

Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechau 

Wi sauce, ragouts, and sic like trasbtrie: 

That's little short o' downright wastrie. 

Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 

Poor* worthless elf, it eats a diuuer. 

Better than ony tenant man 

His hanour has in a' the Ian' ; 

And what poor cot-folk pit their painch ia^ 

I own its past my compreheusioa. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't enougli; 
A cotter howkiu' in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
And nought but his ban' dark, to keep 
Them riglit and tight in thack and rape. 
And when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. 
And they maun starve o' cauld or huiigei'; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
Theyre' maistly wonderfu' contented: 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAR. 

But then to see how ye're negleeit. 
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckitl 
L — d, man, our ^ ' 'v care as little 
For del vers, ditcher., id sic cattle. 
They gang as saucy by poor folk. 
As I wad by a sthikin' brock. 
I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day. 
And mony a time my heart's been wae^ 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o" cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snash; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble^ 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble 1 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches I 

LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think j 
Tiio' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustora'd wi' the sight. 
The vi«w o't gies them little fright. 




*)^0 •\/VJ 



140 



BUHNS'S POETICAL "WORKS 



Tben chance and fortune are sae guided. 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
And tlio' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's sweet eujoymeut. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans and faithfii' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their tire-side ; 
And whyles twalpeniiie worth o' nappy 
Can make the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind tlie Kirk and State atfairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin'. 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns. 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns. 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 
That merry day the year begins, 
Tliey bar the door on frosty win's; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steafti ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house — 
]\Iy heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barkit wit' them. 
Still it's owTC true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creduable stock 
0' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out baitt root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha' aiblins thraug a parliamentiu'. 
For Britam's 2uid lus saul indentiu'— — 



Ilaith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it. 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 

And saying ay or no's they bid him : 

At operas and plays par'Ading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 

Or may be, in a frolic daft. 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 

To mak a tour and tak a whirl. 

To learn bun ton, and see the worl*. 

There' at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's aald entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
Vi thrum guitars, audfecht wi' uowte; 



Or down Italian vista startles, 

W-re hunting ar laug groves o' myrtJefl; 

Then bouses drundy German water. 

To mak himsel' look fair and fatter. 

And clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid! — for her destruction! 

Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate 1 
Are we sae foughten and harass' d 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

Oh would they stay aback frae courts. 
And please themselves wi* countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breakiu' o' their timmer. 
Or speakiu' lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, blaster Csesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them. 
The vera thought o't need ua fear them. 



L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I a^ 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
It's true, they needna starve or sweat. 
Thro' winter's caidd, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes; 
But human bodies are sic fools. 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them ; 
And aye the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country girl at her wheel. 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: 
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curs^ 
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet vmeasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, aiid tasteless; 
Their nights unquiet, laug, and restless; 
And e'en their sjiorts, their balls and rarje^ 
Their galloppiiig thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sawther a' in deep debauchea; 



LAMENT. 



141 



Af night they're mad wi' <^rink and wh-ring 
Nicst clay their life is past eiuiuriug. 
The Ijadies arra-in-aKn in clusters. 
As ereat ami gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoug-hts o' ither. 
They're a' rui, deils and jads thegither. 
\A hyles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
Tlipy sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-iang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a cliance a farmer's stackyard, 
And cheat like onie unhang'd blackg-uard. 
There's some exception, man and woman; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sig'ht 
And darker g-loaming: broug:ht the night : 
The bum clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
\A hen up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Eejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; 
And each took off his several way, 
Besolv'd to meet some ither day. 



OCCASTONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE 
ISSUE OF A friend's AMOUR. (121) 

"Abs! how oft does poodness wound itself! 
Andswest affection prove the spring of woe ! " 

EomkI 

On thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. 

And wanders here to wad and weep I 
With woe I nightly vigds keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarmingbeam; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep. 

How life and love are all a dream. 
I joyless view thy rays adorn 

Tlie faintly marked distant hill: 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill :' 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! 

Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace I 
No idly-fcign'd poetic pains, 

ily sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: 
Tlie plighted faith; the mutual flame; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above; 
The promis'd father's tender name; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 
Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How \iave the raptui j moments f JWB 



I How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 
For her dear sake, and her's alouel 

j .A.nd must I think it — is siie gone. 
My secret heart's exulting boait' 
And does she heedless hear my groan? 

I And is she ever, ever lost ? 

■ Oh ! can she bear so basn a heart. 

So lost to honour, lost to truths 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth I 
Alas ! hfe's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe^ 

Her sorrows share, and make them lesg? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy' d. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast. 

My fondly treasur'd thoughts eraidoy'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void. 

For her too scanty once of room 1 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy' d. 

And not a wish to guild the gloom I 

Tlie mom that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and w^oe : 
I »ee the hoij^rs in long array. 

That I miist suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe^ 

Keen recoUection's direful train. 
Must ■n'ring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 

Keep watchinga \i ith the nightly thief : 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

Oh ! thou bright queen, who, o'er th' ex- 
pause, [sway! 

Now highest reign'st, with boundlesj 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-waiid'iing, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high. 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindlmg eye. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set 1 

Scenes never, never to retiim ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again I burn [ 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro"; 
And hopeless, comfortless, FU nmurn 

A faithless woman's bf.oken i ow. 





%,K¥n/ 



142 



BURNS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towr'rs. 
\N'here once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Lepsiation's sov'rei;j:n pow'rs ! 
From marking: ^vlldly-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter iu thy honour'd shade. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy Trade his labo\ir plies; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise; 
Here Justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 
Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Tlieir views eularg'd, their lib'ral mind. 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. 

Gay as the gilded suunuer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Ileav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love oi» high, 

And own his work indeed divine (122) ! 
There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar : 
like some bold vet'ran, grey iii arms. 

And mark'd with many a seaming scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rismg o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assaiiing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock, 
M'ith awe- struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust I 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just 1 
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

^\'hose ancestors, in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody hon bore : 
Ev'n 1 who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply, my sires have left their shed. 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers led ! 



Edina ! Scottia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs^t 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rfi. 

As on the banks of Ayi I stiay'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hour% 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



f IjE ffirigs nf iiir. 



INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ, 
AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plowgh, 
learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; 
The chanthig linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the greeW. 

thorn bush ; [shri**. 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breav* 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistiuv, 

o'er the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed. 
To hardy independence bravely bred. 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And traiu'd to arms in stern misfortune'l 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close. 
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose 1 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely 

sings, [strings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- 
ward! 
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 
When Ballantyne befriends his humble 

name. 
And hands the nistie stranger up to fame. 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom 

swells. 
The god-hke bliss, to give, alone cxceU. 



'Twas when th* stacks get on theif 

winter-hap, [crap ; 

And thack and rape secure the toil-woa 

Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 

Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 

Umiumber'd buds and flow'rs' delicious 

spoils, [piles, 

Seal'd up with frugal care in massive wf sea 

Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er th« 

weak, [reek : 

The death o' devils sraooi'd wi' brimstouu 








THE BEIGS OF AYR. 



m 



The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry 

side, 
The wounded conveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The I'eather'd tield-matss, bound by Nature's 

tie, 
Sires, mothers, cliildren, in one carnaf^e lie : 
(W'iiiit warm, poetic heart, but iuly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae nialr the flow'r ia field or meadow 

sprjigs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings. 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 
I'roud o' the height o' some bit half-lang 

tree: 
'Hie hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Jlild, calm, sereue, wide-spreads the noon- 
tide blaze, [the rays. 
While thick the gossamour waves wautoii in 

*Twas in that season, when a simple bard. 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care. 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's (123) wheel'd the 

left about : 
fWliethcr impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whetlier, rapt in meditation high. 
He wan<ler'd out he knew not where or why) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock (124) had num. 

ber'd two, [was true : 

And Wallace Tower (125) had sworn the fact 
The tide-gwoln Firth, with sullen sounding 

roar, [the shore. 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along 
All else was hnsh'd as Nature's closed e'e : 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and 

tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently-crustiug, o'er the glittering 

stream. [Hard, 

Wlicii, lo ! on either hand the list'iiing 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is 

heard , 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as tlw gos (126) drives on the wheel- 
ing hare ; 

4ne^on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry 'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr pre- 
side. 
(That Hards are second-sighted is nae joke. 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 
them, [them.) 

ftnd ev"n the vera deils they hrawly ken 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
Ihe very wriukles Gothic in his face; 



He seem'd as he wi' Tim" had warstlM lang, 
Yet, teughly dome, he Dade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a oraw new coat. 
That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 
Ill's hand five taper staves as smooth's ■ 

bead, 
^'\'i' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with auxicmi 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ty arch ;— 
It chaiic'd his new-come neebor took his e'e^ 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart h;id lie 1 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien. 
He, down the water, gies liim tlia guid- 

e'eu: — 

AULD BRIO. 

I doubt na', frieu', ye'U think ye're nas 

sheepshank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank I 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith, that day I doubt ye'U never see; 
There'll be, if that date come, 1 11 wad & 

boddle. 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little 

mouse. 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet — [lime 

Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane anj 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat. 

stream (127), [swim, 

Tho' they should cast the vera sark and 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy 

pride — [tide; 

This mony a year T' jc stood the flood aud 
And tho' wi' crazy e:ld I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye'se a shapeless cairn! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-thres winters will infoira ye better. 
Wien hea\'y, dark, continued a' -day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erllow the plains ; 
When from the hiUs where springs the 

brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock wiuds his moorland 

course, [source. 

Or haunted Garpal (128) draws his feeble 
Arous'd by blust'riug winds aud spotting 

thowes, [rowes ; 

la mony a torrent down his snaw-brco 



144 



BtJRNS'S POETICAL "yOEKS. 



While crashing ice. Dome on the roaring 

siieat, [gate ; 

Sweeps (lams and mills, and brigs, a' to the 
Aiid from Glenbuck (129), down to the Rat- 
ton-key (13U), [sea — 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling 
Then down ye'U hurl, deil nur ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pour- 
ing skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. 
That Arcluetcture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIO. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must 
say't o't ! [gate o't ! 

Tlic L — d be thankit that we've tint the 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alhiring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; 
O'er -arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows, and doors in nameless sculpture 

drest. 
With order, symmetry, or taste unWest ; 
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream. 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee. 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, 
or sea. [taste 

JIansions that would disgrace the building 
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race. 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; 
Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our good Bingh denies protec- 
tion ! [resurr action ! 
And soon may they expire, uublest with 

AULD BRIG. 

Oh ye, my dear-remember' d ancient yeal- 

ings, [ings ! 

Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 

Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 

Wha in the paths o'righteousness did toil 

aye; 
Te dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveneers, 
To wiiom our moderns are but causey- 

cleauers ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this to^vn ; 
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly ga'e your hurdies to the smi- 
tets; [writers; 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- 
tion, 
Vo gee each mekncholy alteration; 



And agonising, ccrse the time and pUm 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate recol 
Nae langer rev'rend men, their country'i 
glory. [braid story ! 

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain 
Nae longer thrifty citizens and douce, 
IMeet owre a pint, or in the couiicil-liouse; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gen- 
try. 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and 35 
barbers, [new Brigs and Harbour?, I 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear ou d — d 

NE\T BRIG. 

Now baud you there! fof faith you've 

said enough, [through ; 

And muckle mair than ye can mak to 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little. 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
B>it, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I needs must say, comparisons are odd. 
In AjT, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 
To mouth " a citizen," a term o' scandal ; 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street. 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops aud 

raisnis. 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense for once 

betray'd them, [them. 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 



What further clish-ma-claver might been 

said, [shed, 

\^niat bloody wars, if Spirites had blooil to 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adow^l tlie glitt'ring stream tliey fcatly 

danc'd : [glanc'd : 

Bright to the moon their various dresses 
Tiiey footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
Tlie infant ice scarce bent beneath their feeti 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
Oh, had M'Lauchlaa (131), thairm-inspiring 

Sage, 
Been there to hearthis heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bora 

with highland rage; 
Or when they struck oli Scotia's k citing 

The lover's raptur'd joyi or blefding c&fea; 




-1^1^ 



ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW H]!NBEESO?T. 



IM 



Hot would IiishisrWand lug been nobler firM, 
And ev'n liis matchless hand with tiiier toui-h 

insy>ir'd ! 
No g-iiess could tell what instrument appear'd. 
Cut all the soul of Jlusic's self was heard; 
Harmonious concert rung in e\Try part, 
Wliile simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound : 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Bweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 
Spring ; [Joy, 

Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding 
com ; [show. 

Then Winter's tiriSe-bleach'd locks did hoary 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next foUow'd Coui-age, with his martial 
stride ; [hide (132) ; 

From where the Feal wild woody coverts 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air. 
.A. female form, came from the tow'ra of 

Stair (133) ; 
I«sming and Worth in equal measures trode. 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode 
(134); [wreath. 

Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 
kiudhng wrath. 



*ii izifim 3Hattl;pra irnJrrrsnn, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 

Vim HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM 

ALMIGHTY GOD. (135) 

" Should the poor beflattered ?"— Shakspeask. 
But new his radiant course is run, 

For Matthew's course was bright; 
His soul was like the plorious sun, 
A matchless heaveniy light ! 

Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiJdie, 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like otock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 
The ae best fellow e'er was bora ' 



Thee Matthew, Nature's sel' shall moura 
By wood and wild. 

Where, haply. Pity stray's forlorn, 
Frae man exil'd ! 

Ye hills ! near neighbours o' the stann, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye Cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns (133JI- 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairn% 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 

Ye haz'ly shaws and briary dens ! 

Ye burnies, wimplin' dovra your glens^ 

Wi' toddhn' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the leaj 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rsj 
Ye roeei on your tliorny tree. 

The first o' flow'r*. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head. 

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shedL 

I' th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the gladi^ 

Came join my wail. 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood !— 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake. 



I Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
} 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
■ And when ye v/ing your annual way 
Frae oiu- cauld shorCi 
Tell the far warlds, wha hes in clay 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye owlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 

In some auld tree, or eldritch towV, 

What time the moon, wi' silent glow^ 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midniglit hoar 

TUl waukrife mom I 

Oh, rivers, forests, hills, and plaint | 
Oft have ye heard my ';anty strauu^ 



148 



l^b^.x:;s'S poettcal works. 



Bnt, now, what else for me remains 
But tales of woe ? 

And frae my eeu the drapping rains 
Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, sprin;a:, thou darlin? of the year ! 
Ilk cow«lip cup shall kep a tear : 
Tliou, simmer, wliile each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses sliear 

For him that's dead. 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Jloum him, thou sun, great source of light ; 
]Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starries bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 

Ne'er to return. 

Oh, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone ftr ever? 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I tind another. 

The world around ? 

Go to your scniptur'd tombs, ye gre«V 
In a' the tinsd trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of wortli 5 
And weep ihe ae best fellow's fate 
E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, jvRssenger ! — my story's brirf 

And truth I shall relate, man; 
] tell nae common tale o' grief — 

For ilatthew was a great man. 
If ffioii uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spufii'd at fortune's door, man^ 
A look of pity hitlier cast — 

For ilatthew was a poor man. 
If thou a noble sodf/er art. 

That passest by this grave, man. 
There moulders here a gallant heart— 

For Mattlkew wus a brave man. 
If tliou on men, their works and ways. 

Canst thiort' uncommon light, man. 
Here lies wha weal had won thv jiraise— 

For Jtattheiv was a bright mau 
If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life Itself resign, man, 
Tliy synipatlwtic tear maun fa'— 

For M».tlhew was a kind mau I 



If thou art staunch wJt'/»out a staii^ 

Like the unchanging blue, raso. 
This was a kinsman o' thine aiu — 

For Matthew was a true man. 
If thou ha.^t wit, and fun, and fire. 

And ne'er guid wine did fear, man^ 
This was thy bilhe, dam, -ind sire— - 

For INIatthew was a queer man. 
If ony whiggish whingin' sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, mniif 
May dool and sorrow be bis lot ! 

For Matthew was a raie ma«. 



fira (!!)* Iljaiitrr, 

A TALE. ('.37) 

" Ofbro wnysis and of bogilis full is this buke." 
Gawi.n DouoLiA 

"When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neighbours, neighbours me«t. 
As market-days are wearing late. 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at t'le nappy. 
And gettin' fou and unco happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots milei^ 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame. 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
Tliis truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
Oh Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld the weal thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken bleiliim; 
That frae November till October : 
Ae market-ilay thou was rae sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Ihou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd e shoe on, 
Tlie smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till ]\loUi 

day. (138) 
She prophesied, that, late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Dooi^ 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
Ah. gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
To think how mony coui sels sweet. 
How mony lengthen'd sajre advices. 
The husband frae the wi'e despises; 
But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted uuco right. 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 



14) 



Fast by an ingle, bleezing' finely, 
Wi' reamiiij,' swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been foti' for weeks thegither f 
The nii;ht drave on wi' sangs and clatter. 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracions, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious. 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories. 
Tiie landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle- 
Tarn did na mnid the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; 
As bees flee liame wi' lades o' treasure, 
Tiie minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 

Or like the snowfall in the river, 

A moment white — then melts for ever; 

Or like the boiealis race. 

That flit ere yon can point their pittoe; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide, 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast on ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd. 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: 
That night, a child might understand. 
The ded had business on his hand. 
Weal mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skclpit on thro' dub and raire. 
Despising wind, and rain, and tire ; 
Whiles holdnig fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scot's son- 
net ; 
Wildes glow'ring round wi prudent cares, 
Ijcst bogles catch him unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh (139), 
Where ghaists and owlets niglitly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Where in the suaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and nieikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck bane; 
And thro' tlie whins, and by the cairn, 
WlMce hunters faud the murder'd baira; 



And near the thorn, aboon the w ell, 

Where Mungo's mither hang'd herseL 

Before him l)oon pours all his floods ; 

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods J 

The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 

Kear and more near the thunders roll ; 

When glimmering thro' the groaning trec% 

Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 

And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

AVhat dangers thou can'st make us scomt 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil ! — 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddlt^ 

Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 

She ventur'd forward on the light ; 

And, wow I Tam saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and ntiBf 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bnnker in the east. 

There sat auld >Jick, in shape o' beast; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim and large. 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screw'd the pipes and garb them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 

Collins stood round, like open presses, 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses| 

And by some devilish cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a lights 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet airni ; 

Twa span-lang, wee unchristeii'd baimi; 

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab diii gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bliiid red-rusted; 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled, 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 

AVhoni his ain son o' life bereft, 

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tamniie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious. 

The mi A and fun gre.v fast and furious; 

The piper loud and louder blew ; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 

cleckit. 
Till ilka carline swat and reckit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And liiiket at it in her sark ; 
Now Tam, oh Tam ! hail thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teeua ; 
14* 



us 



BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



ITieir sarks, instead o' cfeesViie flannen, 
Been snaw-«liite seventeeu-hunder linen! 
Their hreeks o' mine, my only pair, 
lliat ance were plusk o' guid blue hair, 
1 wad hae gi'en iliem otf my hurdles. 
For ae bimk o' the bounie biudies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 

Kigwoodie hags, wad speau a foal, 

Ixmping and fli-ignig on a cunimuck, 

1 wonder didiw turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' braw'lie; 

There was a winsome wench and walie. 

That night enhsted in the core, 

(Lang alter kenn'd on Carrick shore; 

For mony a beast to dead she siiot. 

And perish'd mony a bounie boat. 

And shook baitli meikle corn and beer. 

And kept the country-side in fear.) 

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 

That whde a lassie she had worn. 

In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 

It was lier best, a.iu she was vanntie — 

Ali ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 

ThoC sark slse coft ior her wee Nannie, 

Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 

"Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour. 

Sic flights are far beyond her jiow'r; 

To sing how Nannie lap and llang, 

(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 

And how Tarn stood like ane ijewitch'd. 

And thought his very een cnricli'd ; 

Even Satan glowr'd and tidg'd fu' fain. 

And hotch'd and blew wi' niiglit and main : 

Q'ill first ae caper, syne aniiher, 

Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 

And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sarJt !" 

And in aii instant all was dark : 

And scarcely had he ilaggie rallied, 

\V lieu oat the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

W hen plundering herds assail their byke; 

As open pussie's mortal foes. 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose; 

As eager runs tlie market-crowd. 

When " Catch the thief! " resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eltlritch screecli and hollow. 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'il get tli# faiiia' ! 

In hell they'U roast thee like a herrin' 1 

la vain thy Kate awaits thy comm' 1 

Kate soon will be a woefu' w omau ! 

Kow, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane (140) o' the brig; 

There at them thou thy tad may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross! 

But ere tlie key-stane she could make, 

like tieut a tail she had to shake 1 



For Nannie, far befors the rest. 
Hard upon uoole jMaggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle. 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought of! her master hale^ 
But kft behind her ain grey tail ; 
The carline cauglit her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall rea^ 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your inind. 
Think ! ye may buy the joys over decz- 
Remember Tam o' Shauier's mare. 



^ragir /ragiiiriit, (i4i) 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
A narden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villrin. 
Still my heart melts at human wretcheduesB ] 
And with sincere tho' anavading sighs, 
I view the helpless children of distress. 
W'ith tears indignant 1 behold th' oppressoi 
Rejoicing in the lionest man's destruction, 
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 
Even you, ye lielpless crew, I pity you ; 
Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 
Ye poor, despis'd, abaiulon'd vagabonds, 
Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin. 
— Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 
I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 
The most detested, worthless wretch amoag 
you! 



^(intrr, a iDirip;. (i42) 

The wintry west extends his blast. 

And hail and rain does blaw; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
Whde tumbling brown, tlie burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast hi covert rest. 

And pass tiie heartless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'crca.U" (113), 

The joyless wmter day 
liBt others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my gOQ^ 

My griefs it seems to join; 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty schema 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must behest, 

Because they are th/ wiUl 



ELEGY ON EGBERT fiUISSEAUX. 



141 



Then all I want (oh, -lo thou graut 
This cue request of mine !) 

Since to enjoy thou dost deuy. 
Assist me to resiiru. 



CNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENl 
ANGUISH. (144) 

Oil thou srreat Beinj;! wliat thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all thy works below. 
Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

AH wretched and di^trest; 
Vet sure those ills tliat wring my sold 

Obey Thy hi;,4i behest. 
Sure Thou, Almij;hty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears> 

Or close them fast iu death ! 
But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise desisjn ; 
Tiien man my soul with lirm resoI?ea^ 

To bear aud not repine ! 



ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Oh ihou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of a.M my hope and fear ! 
In wliose dread presence, ere an hour. 

Perhaps I must appear ! 
If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As somethuig, loudly, in my breast, 

Kenioustrates I have done. 
Thou knovv-'st that Thou hast formed me, 

With passions wild an<l strong ; 
And list'uing to their witcliiug voice 

Has often led me wrong. 
'VMiere human weakness has come short. 

Or frailty slept aside, 
Do Thou, All-good ! for such thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 
VMicre with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have, 
liut. Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Dehghteth to forjcive. 



Itainas 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. (145) 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 
ila\e I so found it full of pleasing 
charms ? 



Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : [storms : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or deatii's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beueati his siu-avenging 
rod. 

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul of- 
fence ! " 
Fain promise never more to disobey; 
But should my Author health again dis- 
pense. 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way: 
Again iu folly's path might go astray; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man; 

Then how should 1 for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 

plan ? [tation ran ' 

Who siu so oft have moum'd, yet to temp. 

Oh Thou, great Governor of all below I 

If 1 may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow. 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'f assist ev'n rae^ 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. 

To rule their torrent in the hallowed line; 
Oh, aid me with Tliy help, Omnipotenc* 
Divine 1 



flrgij nn tfjB Sratli nf Hulirrt IRnissranL 

(146.) 
Now Robin lies in his last lair. 
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him; 
Nor anxious fear, nor caukert care, 

E'er mair come near him 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. 
Except the moiiieiit that they crusn't hita; 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em. 

Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to k'ntra wark. 

And counted was baith wight aud stail^ 

Yet that was never Robin's maris; 

To mak a man ; 
Gut tell liim, he was learned and clai'k. 

Ye roos'd liiin than 1 



160 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



€\it Calf. 

TO THE BE*. MR. JAMES STEVEN. (147) 

On his Text, Mai,, iv. 2.— "And they shall go 
forth, and frrow up, like calves of the slall." 
Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true. 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco calf! 
And should some patron be so kiud. 

As bless you \vi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a stirk. 
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power 

You e'er should be a Scot ! 
Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, 

Yoxir but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 
And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank araang the nowte. 
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here hes a famous bullock !" 



f flE f ma 23rrH 

OR THE HOLY TULZIE. (148) 

On a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wba now will keep you frae the foi. 

Or worrying tykes, 
Qr wha will tent the waifs and crocks. 

About the dykes ? 
The twa best herds in a' the wast. 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These live and twenty simmers past. 

Oh ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 
Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle, 

And think it tine : 
The L — 'a cause ne'er got sic a twistle 

Sin' I ha'e mine. 
O, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 

To wear the plaid. 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit. 

To be their guide. 



What flock wi' !Moodie's fl jck could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank ! 
Nae poisou'd sour Armini.'ui stank. 

He let tlier.i taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank— 

Oh sic a fea st ! 

Tlie thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod. 
Well kenn'd his voice thrc agh a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hale and rod, 

Baith out ai-d in. 
And weel he Uk'd to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

"V\Tiat herd like Russell (1 t9) tell'd his tali; 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale. 
He kenn'd the Lord's sherp, dka tail. 

O'er a' the jeight, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the lirst sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel < iub. 

And New-Light herds could nicely drub. 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er th'. burning dub. 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — Oh ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
And names like villain, hy jocrite. 

Ilk ither gi en. 
While New-Light herds, wi' langhin' spite. 

Say neither 3 lyiu' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 

There's Duncan (1,50), diep, and Peebles 

shaul (151), 
But chiefly thou, apostle /add (152), 

We trust iu thee. 
That thou wilt work them het and oauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna nar le ; 
I hope frae heav'n to see i,hem yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrjrmple (153) has been lang out fae, 
M'Gill (154) has wrought us meikle wae. 
And that curs'd rascal ca' 1 Mtiuhae (155), 

And baith the Sl»aws (156), 
That aft ha'e made us bla( k and blae, 

Wi' veugefa' paws. 

Auld Wodrow (157) lang h^.s hatcii'd mischieJ, 
We thought aye death wud bring relief. 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to sue eed him, 
A chield wha'U soundly bull our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 




HOLr WILLIE'S PiiATER. 



151 



And mony a ane t'lat I could tell, 
VMia fain would opeuly rebel, 
Forbye turncoats anian^ oursel. 

There's Smith for ane, 
[ doubt he's but a grey-nick quill. 

And that ye'U lin'. 
Oh ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells, 
Come, join your cr.unsel and your skills 

To cowe the lairds. 
And get the brutes the powers themsels 

To rhoose their herds. 
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
Aud Learning in » woody dance. 
And that fell cur ^.-a'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd o'er tliC sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 
Tiien Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excelieuce, 
Quhae's pathetic manlv sense. 

And guid iM'AIath, [153 

Wi' Smith, wha thio' the heart can glance. 

May a' pack aff. 



m^ ajjilliE's ^3rai|rr. 059) 

On Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwelt, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' 'or thy glory. 
And no for ony gmde or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 
I bless and praise thy matchless might. 
When thousands thou hast left in night. 
That ham. here a tore thy sight. 

For gifts and gract^ 
A burnin' and a shiiiin' light 

To a' this place, 
MTiat was I, or my generation, 
That I should gee sic exaltation, 
1 v^ha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 
When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou Biigfet hae plunged me into hell, 
f o gnash my guuis, to weep aud wail, 

In burnin' lake. 
Where damned devils roar and yell, 

Chuin'd to a stake. 
Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 
To show thy graco is great aud ample; 
'"'m here a pillar la thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
4 ^ide, a buckler, an example^ 

To a' thy flock. 



But yet, oh Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
Aud sometimes, too, wi' wardly trust. 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dus^ 

DeJii'd in siu. 



JMaybe tliou lets't this fleshly thorn. 

Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 

Lest he owre high and proud should tiurot 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, thy ban' maun e'en be borue. 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place^ 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face^ 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

Aud public shame. 

Lord, mind Gaw'u Hamilton's deserts, 
lie drinks, and swears, and plays at carter 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grat aud sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

And when we chasten'd him therefore^ 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us ; — 
Curse thou his basket and his storey 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r. 

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand. Lord, mak it bai» 

Upo' their heads. 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 

For their misdeeds. 

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu' 1 Aikii^ 
My very heart and saul are quakin'. 
To think how we stood groanin', shakia' 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin' lips and siiakin'. 

Held up bis head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him. 
Lord, visit them wha did employ hiuj. 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 

Nor hear tlieir pray'r; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em. 

And diima spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
■^Vi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shioe^ 

Exceil'd by uane. 
And a' the glory shall be thiue^ 

Amen, Amea \ 



152 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 



4Fpita;iIl nn ISnlii Wiilii. 



Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His soul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear the left-haud road. 
Stop ! there he is, as sure'a a gun. 

Poor, silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the ^in'. 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 
Your brunstane devilship, I see. 

Has got him there before ye ; 
But baud your nine-tail cat a wee, 

Till auce you've heard my story. 
Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Jus»tice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er. 

And mercy's day is gaen. 
But hear me, sir, deil as ye are. 

Look something to your credit ; 
A coof like him wad stain your name. 

If it were keut ye did it. 



%istb in SdIjii €m\¥\i nf Hilraarniirlv. 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS 
ESSAYS. (160) 

Oil Goudie ! terror of the WHiigs, 
Dread of black coats and rev'reud wigs. 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 
^ Wad seize you quicL 

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's iu a sad condition ; 
Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician. 

To see her water. 
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's g t an unco ripjjle ; 
Haste, gie' her name up i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple. 

And gasps for breath. 
Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gane in a galloping consumption. 
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her. 
•Tis you and Taylor (IGI) are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief. 
But giu the Lord's ain fjuk gat leav^ 

A toom tar-barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief. 

And eud the quarrel. 



i^bili tn Sniiii fxaiikln?, 

EBCLOSING SOME POEMS. (1G2) 

Oil rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkiu'! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin'. 

Your dreams (16 >) and tricllS 
Will send you, Korah-like, n-siulcin', 

Straught to Auld Nick's. 
Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants, , 
And in your wicked, drunken rants. 
Ye mak a devil o' the sauiits, 

jVnd till them fou (104); 
And then their faihngs, flaws, and wauta, 

Are a' seen tlirough. 
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, oh dmna tear it! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it; 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't atf their back. 
Tliink, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing. 
It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing^ 
O' sauuts ; tak that, ye lea'e them uaetlnug 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 
I've sent you here some rhyming ware^ 
A' that I bargain'd for, and luair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang (165), ye'll sen't wi' canny cxae. 

And no neglect. 



September 13, 1785, 
Good ipeed and fnrder to you, Johnny, 
Guide health, hale ban's, and weather bonny; 
Now wheu ye're nickan down fii' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' liraii'y 

To clear your head. 
May Boreas never thresh your rigs. 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Seudin' the stuff o'er muirs ami naggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapniast grain that wagt 

Come to the sack. 
I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it. 
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat i^ 
Sae my auld sturapie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark. 
And took my jot'.eleg and whatt' it. 

Like ony ciark. 







' iiiiiiiiiiiii[;ii;iiiNiwiiiiii::!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



EPISrLE TO THE EEV. JOHN M'MATH. 



16S 



It's now twa moii th that I'm your debtor. 
For yo>ir braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abuaia' vie for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deD a hctir yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
liOt's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'el cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To lielp, or roose us. 
But browster wives and whiskey stills. 

They are the muses. 
Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it. 
And if ye mak objections at it, 
Then hau' iu nieve some day we'U knot it. 

And witness take. 
And when wi' usquebse we're wat it. 

It winna break. 
But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
And a' the vittel in the yard. 

And theeidt right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 
Then muse-in 'pirin' aqua vitoe 
Sliall make us baith sae blythe and witty 
Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty. 

And be as canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty. 

Sweet ane aud twenty ! 
But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast. 
And now the sinn keeks in the west. 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

And quat my chanter ; 
Sae I cabscribe myself in haste 

Your's Rab the Ranter. 



e^Alt latlji; Era. Snljn B'31Iatlj. (i67) 

Seplemler 17, 1785. 
t^''niLE at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. 
Or iu gulravage rinnin' seow'r 

To pass the time. 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 
My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 
On gown, aud ban', and douse black bonnet, 
Is growu right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her. 
And rouse their holy thunder on it. 

And anathem her. 
I own 'twas rssh, and rather hardy. 
That 1, a simple, couutra bardie, 
Shou'd ii;eddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me. 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie. 

Louse h-11 upon me. 



But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Tiieir sigliin', cantin', grace-proud faces. 
Their tluee-mile prayers, aud hauf-uule graces 

Their raxui' conscience, 
Whase greed, reveuge, and pride disgracei^ 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gawn (168),misca't waur than a beasts 
Wha has mair honour iu his breast 
Thau mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't hinf 

See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman iu word and deed, 
Aud shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skcllums, 
Aud not a muse erect her head 

Te cowe the blellums? 

Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

And tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 
God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd bfl^ 
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be. 
But twenty times I rather wou'd be 

An atheist clean. 
Then under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 
An honest man may like a glass. 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, and malice faus^ 

He'll still disdain. 
And then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth , 
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth. 
For what ? — to gie tlieir malice skouth 

On some puir wight. 
And hunt him down, o'er right and ruth^ 

To ruin straight. 

All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 
Who iu her rough imperfect line. 

Thus daurs to name tbeoj 
To stigmatise false friends of tiiiiie 

Can ne'er defame thee. 
Tlio' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain. 
And far unworthy of thy train. 
With trembling voice 1 tune my strain 

To joui with those 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 
In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobi, 
In spite o' undermining jobs. 




154 



BURNS'S POETICAL WURKS. 



La spite o' dai-L- banditti stabs 

At worth audrit 
By scouudrels, even wi' holy robes. 

But heUish spite. 
Oh Ayr ! my dear, my native ground. 
Within t'ly presbyterial bound 
A caudid hb'ral band is found 

Of public teachers. 
As men, as Christians too, reuowu'd. 

And manly preachers. 
Sir, in that circle you are nara'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
Aud some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Which gies you honour], 
Ev'n Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

Aud winning manner. 
Pardon this freedom I have ta'en. 
And if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

VVliase heart ne'er wrang'd ye. 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



Clji 



jt Slmrriran 1"0ar» 

A FKAGJIENT. (169) 

When Guildford good our pilot stood. 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat. 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
And did nae less, in full CongTess, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 
Tlien thro' tJie lakes ^Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Caileton did ca' man ; 
But yet, w hat-reck, he, at Uuebec; 

Montgomery like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his banc^ 

Amaug his en'mies a', man. 
Icor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Ijuston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For I'hiladelphia, man : 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christ'an blood to draw, man : 
But at New York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loui he hacked sma', man. 
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip. 

Till Praser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought. 

And did the buckskiiii claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glai\ e frae rust to save, 

Ue huii£ it to the 'va , man. 



Then jSIontague, and GiiilifovA, tlo. 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville dour, wha stood the 8toui% 

Tlie German Ciiief to thraw, luji; 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy hud at a', man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

And lows'd iiis tinkler jaw, man. 
Then Rockingham took up the game. 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Slielburne meek held up Ins cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man. 
For North and Fox united stocks. 

And bore him to the wa', man. 
Then clubs aud hearts were Charlie's carter 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race^ 

Led him a sair faux pas, man; 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', m;m ; 
Aud Scotland drew her pipe, and bbw, 

" Up, AVillie, waur them a', man !" 
Behind the throne then Grenville's gon 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
Wliile slee Dundas arous'd the class. 

Be-north tlie Roman wa', man ; 
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, rise I 

Would I liae fear'd Ihem a", man V" 
But, word and blow. North, Fox, and Co, 

Gowff'd Willie hke a ba', man. 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claiso 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
And Caledou threw by tlie drone, 

Aud did her whittle draw, man ; 
And swoor fn' rude, thro' dirt and bloo<^ 

To make it guid in law, man. (I/O) 



A BROTHER POET. 
ACLD NEIBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 

Some less mauu sair. 
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddtei 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdla 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Xoui auld, gray hairs. 




iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiii:iiiiiuiiiiiiiiiii;i:iiiiiu.< 



THE FIRST PSALM. 



I5S 



But, Davie lad Fm red ye're g-laikit ; 
I'm ;.auld tlie muse ye hae nej^leckit; 
Aud gif it's sae, ye siid be licket 

Until ye fyke; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Kivin' the words to "-ar tiiera chiik ; 
^Vhyle3 daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' 
drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoug-htless sons o' man, 
Comnieu' me to the bardie clan ; . 

Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhyuun' chnk. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o'liviu' 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put tlie nieve in. 

And while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at \iark, or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
The' rough and raplocli be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Da\-ie : 
The warl' may play you nionie a shavie; 
But fur the Muse, she'll ne\er leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



All hail i inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
The ministers of gnef aud pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairuig eye, 

1 see each aimed dart ! 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
Aud quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring. 

The storm no more 1 dread ; 
Though thick ning aud black'iiing. 
Round my devoted head. 



And thou £^^nl pow'r, by life abhoii d. 
While life a pleasure can afford. 

Oh hear a wretch's prayer I 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
To close this scene of care ! 
Wien shall my soul, in silent peace. 

Resign life's joyless day; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease. 
Cold mould' ring iu the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my liieless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



€\}t /irst fn ITrrsrs nf iljt 3lmM^ 

Oh Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of aU the hunif.n race ! 
Whose strong right haud has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads, 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow'r which raised and still upholdi 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever stiU the same. 

Tliose mighty periods of years 

AVhich seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man. 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought ! " 

Thou layest them with all their cares 

In everlastinsr sleep ; 
As with a flora Thou tak'st them cS 

With overwtieiming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flovr'r. 

In beauty's pride array'd; 
But long here night, cut down, U lie* 

All wither'd aud decay'd. 



16 



The man, in life wherever plac'^ 

Hath happiness iu store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's vtf. 

Hot learus their guilty lorel 



'^ liiiiiiniHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



156 




BURNS'S POETICAl, WOEKS. 



Hot from the seat of scornful pridp 
Casts forth his eyes abroad. 

But with humility and awe 
Still w ilks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread ou high, 
Aud firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
Siiall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sleeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked mea 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, 
AT CHUKCH. (171) 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canua say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Tlio', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit woniier. 
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt and sinner. 
How dare you set your feet upon Ler, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, aud seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, ill some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, aud sprawl and sprattle 
\Vi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn uor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. 
Below the fatt'rells, snug and tight; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'U no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'riug height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right banld ye set your nc sb out, 
As plump and grey as ony grozet; 
Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress yoar droddum ! 



1 wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flaunen toy; 
Or aiblius some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! (172" 

How daur ye do't ? 

Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
And set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thjie winks and fiuger-ends, I dread. 

Are notice takin' ! 

Oh wad some power the giftie gie U3 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us. 

And ev'u devotion 1 



^^ Snnrntnni. 

IM ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THJB 
SURVEYOR OP THE TAXES, (173.) 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faitlifu' list 
O' gvides aud gear, and a' my graith. 
To which I'm clear to gie my aith. 

Jwpnmw, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle. 
As ever drew afore a pettle. 
My han' afore's (174) a gude auld has beea 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been 
My han' ahin's (175) a weel gaun tilly, 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie 1,176]^ 
And your auld biu-ro' mony a time, 
la days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
I like a blockhead boost to ride. 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L — pardon a' my sins and that too f) 
I play'd my filly sic a sha^^e, 
She'i a' bedevil'd with the spavie. 
My fur ahiu's (177) a wordy beast. 
As e'er in tug or tow was tracd. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d — u'd red wud Kilburnie blastie! 
Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale. 
As ever ran afore a tail. 
If he be spar'd to be a beast. 
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least— 
"Vi^ieel carriages I hae but few. 
Three carts, and twa a feckly new ; 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, niair for token, 
Ae leg ajid baith the trams arc broken} 
I made a poker o' the spiu'le, 
Aud my auld mither briuit the trin'le 



WILLIE CHALMEHS. 



157 



For men, l>c tliiee mischievous boys, 
Run dc'iis fo/ iiiiitiii' and for noise; 
A gauusinc.n ai'.e, a tlirasher t'other, 
Wee Davock haiiJs the iiowt in fother. 
I rule tliem. as I otifiht, discreetly. 
And afteu labour them completely; 
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the (inestious targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg. 
He'll screcd'you aff Effectual Calling (178), 
As fast as ouy in the dualling. 
I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Ij — keep me aye frae a' temptation !) 
I liae nae wife — and that my bliss is. 
And ye have laid nae tax on misses; 
And then, if kirk folks dnnia clutch me, 
1 ken the devils dare na touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane niae than I wanced. 
]\Iy sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess (179), 
She stares tiie daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already. 
And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L— ! ye'se get them a' thegither. 

And now, remember, j\Ir. Aiken, 
Nae kind of hccnce out I'm takin'; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
]My truvel ao n foot I'll shank it, 
I've sUirdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
Sae dmna put me in your buke. 
Nor for my ten white shillings lulie. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
Till: day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Hiibscrijisi huic, 

ROBEKT BUBNS 

Mosspel, February 22, 1786. 



I 3Iiih k €mh llamiltnn, (0sif., 

MAUCIILINE. 
(recommending a boy.) 

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. 

I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn yo\i how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gauii, 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
iJout whom ye spak the tither day. 

And wad hae duu't aff han' : 



But lest he learn the eallan tricks. 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
lake scrapin' out auld Crummie'g nicks (180), 
And tellin' lies about them : 
As lieve tlien. I'd have then. 

Your clerkship he should aair. 
If sae be ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 

And 'bout a house that's rude and rough) 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught, 
A get sic fair example straught, 

1 havena ony fear. 

Ye'U catechise him every quirk. 

And shore him weel wi' hell ; 

And gar him follow to the kirk — 

— Aye when ye gang yoursel. 

If ye then mauu be then 

Erae hame this comin' Friday ; 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that nigTit at e'en. 

To meet the warld's worm; v 
To try to get the t va to gree, 
And name the airless (181) and the fet^ 

In legal mode and form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw. 
When simple bodies let him; 
And if a devil be at a', 
In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, and praise yon. 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
Tlie pray'r still, you share still. 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



tBillii! (Tljalnirrs. (i82) 

Wi' braw new braaks in miclde pride. 

And eke a braw new brechan. 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

A nd up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward email, 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame. 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet. 

His honest heart enamours, 
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 




•Vvl 




158 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Aulil truth hersel' raiglit swear ye're fair, 

And honour safely back lier. 
And modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mislak' her : 
And sic twa love inspiring een 

Jlisilit fire even holy Palmers; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his brcastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling heart's tiie royal blue. 

And that's wi' WQlie Chalmera. 

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird. 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik hia beard. 

And hoast up some palaver. 
Jly buniiie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
(Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares ray bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie'm his duea^ 

For deil a hair I rouse him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon. 

And fructify your amours, 
And every j ear come in mair dear 

To you aud Willie Chalmers. 



tim mitirn nn a Sank M^. (iS3) 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf. 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief: 

For lack o' thee Pve lust my lass. 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 

I see the children of alllictiuu 

Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil. 

And, for thy potence, vainly wish'd 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

fcr lack o' thee I leave this much loved 

shore. 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 
R. B,— Kyle. 



a 1Ri55. (184) 



Humid seal of soft affections, 
Teud'rest pledge of future bliss. 

Dearest tie of young connections, 
Love's fir^t suow-drop, virgm kiss. 



Speaking silence, dumb confession, 

Passion's birth, and infants' play, 
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession. 

Glowing dawn of brighter day. 
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action. 

When ling'ring lips no more must joii]| 
Mliat words can ever speak affection. 

So thrilling aud sincere as thine I 



^rrsrs lliriltrn nniirr 3}inlrnl tof. 

(185) 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear. 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear. 

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 
My 'morning raise sae clear and fair, 

] thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene ; but grief and cart 
In wildest fury hae made bare 

My peace, my hope, for ever ! 
You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay wee^ 

For a' the joy I borrow. 
Ill solitude — tiien, then I feel 
1 caiina lo myscl' conceal 

My deeply ranklin' sorrow. 
Farewell 1 within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy luughin' ee. 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee— 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



LYING AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGUI^ 
THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOU.OWINQ 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. (186) 

On thou dread Power, who reign'st abova, 

1 kiiov/ thou wilt me hear. 
When for tliis scene of peace and lov« 

I make my prayer sincere ! 
The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. 

Long, long, be pleased to spare. 
To bless his filial httle flock 

Aud show what good men are. 
She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes aud fears. 
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 
Their hope, their stay, their darling youthy 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless him, th'iu God of love aud trutl^ 

Uf to a j^iateut's wish 1 





iiiiiiiiiiniiiiinnniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.i'iii 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGA>V 



10t 



ne beauteous, sf rnph sister-baud, 
\V itli earnest tears I pray. 

Thou know' St the snares ou every hand- 
Guide Thou their steps alway. 

TMieii soon or late they reach that coast. 
O'er Ufa's rough ocean driven. 

May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
A fkuuly in heaven ! 



OF CRAIGEN-GILLAM. 

8lR, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made nie proud ; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard 1" 

I lap and cried fu' loud. 
Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 

The senseless, gawky million : 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — 

I'm roos'd by Craigeii-Gillau 1 
Twas noble. Sir ; 'twas like yoursel. 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. 

Is aye a blest infection. 
Tlio' by his (187) banes who in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye. 
And when those legs to guid, warm k&il, 

Wi' welcome cauiia bear me; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

A barley-scone shall cheer me. 
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the b eath 

O' many flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith- - 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers! 
Aiid God bless young Dunaskiu's aird. 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's Mud, 

A credit to his country. 



ITinrs nn JHwtiiig raitli 5Basil,f nrii Sm, 

(188) 

This wot ye all whom it concenu, 
I, iUiymer Kobin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-thir , 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day. 
Bit far I s{)rachle<l up the b ae, 

1 dinner'd wi' a L )rd. 
I've been at dnicken writers' feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'maiig godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken; 
I've ei'n join'd the honour'd jorum. 
When Diighty squireships of the quorunj, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 



But wi' a Lord ! — stand nut my shiiv 
A Lord — a Peer— an Earl's son ! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'crlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 
But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r '. 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and staiumer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
And sturapin' on his ploughman shanki^ 

He in the parlour hammer' i. 
I ^idling shelter'd in a nook. 
And at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen , 
Except good sense and social glee. 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 
I watch "d the symptoms o' the great. 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state, that 1 could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughiaJH 
Then from his Lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another j 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Hp.er, 

For he but meets a orother. 



£pi5tlB in aiajnr jtogtiii. nsa) 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattiin' AVillie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough and hilly 
To every tiddling, rhyming biUie, 

\Ve never heed, 
But take it like the imback'd filly. 

Proud o' her speed. 
"When idly goavan whyles we sauntof 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishantei. 

Some black bog-hole. 
Arrests us, then the scathe and banter 

W'e're forced to thole. 
Hale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddll 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O this wild warl', 
Until you on a cxumraock driddle 

A grey-hair'd carle. 
Come wealth, come poo'tith, late or sooa 
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A lifth or mair. 
The melaucholious, lazy croon 

0' caukrie c«ee. 
15* 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



May still yov.r lite trom day to day 
Nae • Lecte largo" iii the play. 
But "alle^jrettu forte" gay 

Ilanuouious flow 
A. sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey— 

Encore ! Uravo ! 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 
And never think o' right and wraiig 

By square and rule. 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, • 
Wha count ou poortith as disgrace — 

Iheir tuneless hearts I 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
I'lh' itiier warl', if there's auither — 
4iid that there is I've little swither 

About the matter — 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither ; 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly. 
We're frail backslidnig mortals merely, 
ISve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' 1 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers. 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jiukers. 
The witching cnrs'd delicious blinkers 

Hae put me liyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girniu' spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin'* 
And every star within my hearin' ! 
And by her ecu wha was a dear anel 

I'll ne'er forget; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearia' 

lu fair play yet. 

Wy loss T monm, but not repent i^ 
I'll seek my piirsie wliare I tint it. 
Allot to the Indies I were wonted, 

Some cputrip hour. 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted. 

Then, vive Vamour ! 

Faifes we« bnisseivnins respectueuses. 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

Aud honest Lucky ; no to roose you. 

Ye may be proud, 
'Riai lie a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 



Nae niair at present can I measure 

And trowth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark. 
Sir bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 

Robert BuRNa^ 
Mongiel, 30tk October 1786. 



Xamrnt, 

WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT 
TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

O' ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lono 

mountain straying, [rave, 

Where the wild winds of mnter incessantly 

Wliat woes wring my heart while intently 

surveying [the wave. 

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail. 
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native 
shore ; 
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in 
Coila's green vale. 
The pride of my bosom, my IMary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll 

wander, [the wave; 

And smile at the moon's rimpled face in 

No more shall my arms cUng with fondness 

around her, [her grave. 

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my 

breast, [shore ; 

I haste with the storm to a far distant 

Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall 

rest. 

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



d^it a Irnirlj Sari, 

GONE TO THE WEST INBIES. 

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drip* 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wlia live and never think. 

Come, mourn wi' me I 
Our billie's gien us a' jink. 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him d' ye rantin' core, 
AVlia dearly like a randoin-splor^ 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now he's taen anither shore. 

And owrc the sea! 

The bonny lasses weel may miss hrta. 
And in tlieir dear petitioa« place biaBt 



^190) 



TO A HAGGTS. 



161 



The widows, witcs, and a' may bless him, 

\Vi tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's o«re the sea ! 
Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
Had'st thou taen aff some drowsy bumble, 
VVha c&u do nought but fyke and fumble, 

'Twad been iiae plea ; 
But he was gles; as ony wurable, 

That's ovvre the sea ! 

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her lanreat mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 
He saw mi^^ fortune's cauld nor-west; 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
A jillet brak his lieait at last, 

111 may she be ! 
80, took a berth afore th(; mast. 

And owre the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach. 

Could Ul agree ; 
So row't his hurdles in a hammock. 

And owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding. 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding — 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride ii^ 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 
And hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel. 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhjTnc-coraposing billie I 
Your native soil was right ill-wUlie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonnilie ! 
m toast ye in my hindmost gilUe, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



ON THE BLANK LEAF OP A COPY OF THE 
POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEET- 
HEART, THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd and still remembered dear; 

Sweet early object of my youthful vows ! 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. 

Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 



And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him — lie asks n 5 more 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. 
Or haply hes beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



QijiP /ttrrmrll. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer 
Or what does he regard his sin.sle woes ? 
But when, alas ! he muUii)lies himself, 
'J'o dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 
To those whose bliss, whose beings hung uptin 

him, 
To helpless children !— then, oh then ! he feela 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone !" 

Thomson's Edward and Eleanora, 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domain]^ 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear I 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! thu' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care : 
A faithful brother I have left. 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom fnen'j 
When kmdly you mind me. 
Oh then befriend my Jean ! 

WTiat bursting anguish tears my heartt 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part 1 
Thou, weeping, answ'rest " No l" 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face. 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Tliee, Hamilton, and Aiken deai^ 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you ? 
All-hail then, the gale then. 

Wafts me from thee, dear Ehoitl 
It rustles, and whistles— 
I'll never see thee morel 



f n a Uaggts. (i9i) 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 
Great chieftain o' the puddm'-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thajrm 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm- 

The groaning trencher there ye fi3, 
Youi burdies like a distant lulL 



BmiNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 



onr pin wat7 li>1p to mend a mill 

In t! me o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 
His knife see rustic labour digbt. 
And cut you up \vi' ready slii;ht, 
Treiicliing your gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, oh what a glorious sight, 

Warni-reekin', rich 1 
Tlien horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
Deil tak tiie hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 
Is there that o'er his French ragout 
Or Olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad make her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ! 
Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feckless as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle shank a guid wiiip-lash. 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' hloody flood or Held to dash. 

Oh how unfit ! 
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
The trembling earth resounds his tread. 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
And legs, aud arms, and lieads will sued. 

Like taps o' thnssle. 
Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



Cn Miz5 f ngan, mitlj Srattrt's l^nnns, 

▲S A NEW year's gift, JAN. 1. 1787. 

(192) 
Again the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driv'n. 
Ami you, tlio' scarce in maiden prime. 

Are so much nearer Heav'n. 
No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more l.ian India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 
Our, sex with guile aud faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you I 



fotrmpr? in tljp f nnrt nf f Ksinfl. 

TUNE — Cillicrankie. 

LORD ADVOCATE. (193) 

He clench'd his pamphlets in hia fist« 

He quoted and he hinted. 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graiped for't. 

He faiid it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came shor^ 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

MR. ERSKINE. (194) 

Collected Harry stood a wee, 

nieii open'd out his arm, man : 
His lordship sat \ri' ruefu' e'e. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



®ii lljE dFuiiiraifi' nf 'lUanrljnpj Mm52, 

(195) ' 
" ]\Iy cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, 
I hafflins fiouht it is na' true, man, 
That ye between the stilts was bred, 
Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed 
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 
Kither frae grammar-school or college. 
Guid troth, your saul and body baith 
War better fed, I'd gie my aith. 
Than theirs who sup sour milk and parrltch, 
And bummil through the single Carriich. 
Whaever heard the ploughman speak, 
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ? 
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 
As get a single line of Virgil. 
And then sae slee ye crack vour jokee 
O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox : 
Our great men a' sae wcel descrive, 
And how to gar the nation thrive, 
Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them. 
And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. 
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 
Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 
And though the cauld I ill can bide. 
Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride 
O'er moss and moor, and never grumble. 
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble, 
To crack a winter night wi' thee, 
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 
Oh gif I kenu'd but where ye baide, 
I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 
'Twad houd your shouthers warm andbraWi 
And douce at kirk or market shaw ; 
Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, 
A' honest Scotsmen loe the maud." 

I MIND it weel in early date. 

When I was beardless young, aud >tUt^ 
And first could thresh the baru ; 

Or hand a yokin' at the pleugh ; 

And tho' forfonghten sair eueug 
Yet unco proud to learn : 



PROLOGUE. 



16S 



When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoii'd was, 
/Lnd wi' the lave ilk merry mora 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still skearinjf, and clearings 

The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' claivers, and haivers, 
AVeariug the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, T mind its pow'r — ■ 
A ^vish that to my latest liour 

Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I, for poor anld Scotland's sake. 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make 

Or sing a sang at least 
The rough burr-thissle, spreading wida 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside. 
And spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right and wrang. 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hur'st I said before. 
My partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky een 
That gart my heart-struigs tuigle: 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek. 
But bashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days. 
And we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o' life, the hea\en below. 

Is rapture-giving woTuan. 
Ye surly sumplis, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie svveara. 

For you, no bred to bam and bjre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre^ 

'I'hanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware; 

Twad please me to the nine; 



I'd be mair vauiitie o' my hap. 

Douce hingin' owre my curplc^ 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal than 

And plency be your fa'. 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at j-our hallan ca'. 



WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OP FEROUSSOIf, 
THE POEP, IN A copy OP THAT AUTHOR'S 
WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LAST III 
EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787. 

Curse on uugi-ateful man, that can bfl 
pleas'd, [pleasure ! 

And yet can starve the author of tha 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune. 
By far my elder brother in the muses. 
With tears I j)ity thy unhappy fate ! 
Wliy is the bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleaaurea ? 



fnsrrtptian 

ON TnE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSOIf. 

Here lies 

KoBERT Ferqusson, Poet, 

Born, Sept. 5, 1751. 

Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



SPOKEM BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT 
NIGHT. 

Monday, 16th April, 1787. (196) 

When by a generous Public's kind acclaim. 
That dearest meed is granted^honest fame: 
When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
"UHiat breast so dead to heav'nly Virtue's glow. 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe. 

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous 
throng, [song. 

It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern'! 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar. 
For genius, learning high, as great in war- 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear! 
Before whose sous I'm honour'd to appear I 








Mt§> 




m 



"BTTRTTS'S POETICAL W0EK9. 



Where e very scienee — every nobler art — 
That caimiform tae mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophyj no idle pedant dream. 
Here liolds her search by lieaven-taught 

Reason's beam ; 
Here history paints with elesfance and force, 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into 

plan, 
And Harley (197) rouses all the god in man, 
When well-lbrm'd taste and sparkling wit 

unite , 
With manly lore, or female beiiuty bright 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and 

grace, 
Can only charm us in the second place). 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting 

fear 
As on this night, I've met these judges here! 
But still the hope Experience taught to 

Uve, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet, 
W^ith decency and law beneath his feet ; 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; 
Jjke Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Oh thou dread Power ; whose empire- 
giving hand [land ! 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient 

fire ! 
May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ! 
Still self-dependent in her native shore. 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest 
roar, [no more. 

Till fate the curtain drop on world's to be 



(108) 

AtJLD chuckle Reekie's (199) sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel-burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest. 

Can yield awa. 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's ava ! 

Oh Willie was a iritty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

And trig and braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a frigh'^ — 

Willie's aval 



The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

Tliat was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd— 

Willie's awa ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaurofl 
(200) 

]\Iay morn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 

He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 

I fear they'll now mak raony a stammer- 
Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour. 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw 1 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 

Ty tier's and Greenfield's modest giBCe; 

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Bums — e'en Scotch drink cckmb 

quicken. 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckia 

By hoodie-craw ! 
Griefs gien his heart an unco kickin*— 

Willie's awa! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum. 
And Calvin's folk, are tit to fell him; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellun^ 

Willie's awa! 

Up wimpHng stately Tweed I've sped. 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempests blaw; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled — 

W^illie's awa ! 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
jV text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creecl^ 

Tlio' far aw» 1 



I 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT. 



ic: 



Sfay never wicked fcrturie tonzle him ! 
Way never 'vicked men bamboozle him! 
Until a pow as auld's Metliusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to tlue ;lessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



<Dn {jjf Dratlj nf fn Saracs Mmin ffilair. 

(201) 
The lamp of day, with ill-presaofin;^ glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western 
wave. [dark'niiig air, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd through the 

And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 
Lone as I wander'd by each clitf and dell. 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal 
tram (202) ; [well (203), 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd 
Or nioidd'riiig rwins mark the sacred fane. 
(204) 
Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling 
rocks, [starry sky. 

The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
Aujj^ shooting meteors caught the startled 
eye. 
Tlie paly moon rose in the livid east. 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately 
form. 
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast. 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield [ view'd : 
Her form majestic-droop'd ia pensive woe. 

The lightning of her eye in taars imbued. 
Eevers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Keclin'd that banner, erst in tiehls unfurl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar. 
And brav'd the mighty mouarchs of the 
world. 
" My patriot son fills an untimely grave ! " 
With accents wild and lifted arms — she 
cried ; [save, 

"IjOW lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride. 
A weeping country joins a widow's tear ; 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's 
cry ; [bier ; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt 
sigh ! 
I »aw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms rchly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
Keleutless fate has laid tl.eir guardian low. 



My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthies* 
name ? 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

And I will join a mother'* tender cares. 

Thro' future times to make his virtue last; 

That distant years may boast of other 

Blairs ! "— [blast. 

She said, and vanish'd with the sweepicj 



(Dn Iraring snmt l^atrr-Znral in tmi^ 

®nrit. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG TH K HILLS OF OCHlTaiTT R18» 

Why ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 
"S^'hy disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wav(^ 
Busy feed, or wanton lave , 
Or beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billows shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe. 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pridl^ 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 
The eagle, from yon cliffy brow, 
M irking you his prey below. 
In liis breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels : 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slaio. 
In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring swains. 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and wayt; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And hfe's poor season peaceful Sj 



Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn} 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn, at least, to be his slave. 



169 



BUENS'S SOETHiL ■WORKS. 



^i ^mhk '^Millm nf Sniar 'U'attr. 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OP ATHOLE. (205) 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assaik in vani ; 
Embolden'd tlms, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flamuig summer-pride, 
Dry-witheruig, waste my foamy streams. 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouti^ 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen. 

As poet Burns came by. 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was lie shor'd mej 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneehug, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes. 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well. 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel' 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees. 

And boniiie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

Tlie sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
rhe gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir. 
The blackliird strong, the liutwhite clear. 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
fhe robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all hei locks of yellow. 

This, too, a rover'; shall insure 
To shield tnem from the stormj 

And co\v» rd maukm sleep secure^ 
Low in her grassy form : 



Vmre shall the shepherd make his setfi 
To weave his crown of flow'rs : 

Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 
From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care. 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their Gharms 

The hour of heav'n to grace. 
And birks extend their fragrant amu 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' tlie trees. 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'crspread. 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' water'y bed ! 
IjCt fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy clitfs adorn ; 
And, for the little songsters nest. 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope^ 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken. 

To social flowing glasses, 
Tlie grace be — " Athole's honest mei^ 

And Athole's bounie lasses ! " 



WEITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, 11* IBS 
HERMITAGE BELONGING TO THE DUKB C* 
ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OF ABERFELDT. 

Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading, 
Think not, though from the world recediuft 
I joy my lonely days to lead in 

This desert drear ; 
That feU remorse a conscience bleeding 

Hath led me here. 

No thought of guilt my bosom sours; 
Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers; 
For well I saw in halls and towers 

That lust and pride. 
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powen^ 

In state preside. 



ELEGY ON LORD DICSTDAS 



167 



I saw mankind with vice encnisted ; 
I saw that honour's sword was rusted; 
That few for aught but folly lusted ; 
That he was still deceiv'd who trusted 

To love or friend ; 
And hither came, with men disgusted. 

My life to end. 
In this lone cave, in garments lowly. 
Alike a fee to noisy folly. 
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, 

i wear away 
My life, and in my office holy 

Consume the day. 
This rock my shield; when storms are blowing, 
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing 
Supplpug drink, the earth bestowing 

My simple food ; 
But few enjoy the calm I know in 

This desert wood. 
Content and comfort bless me more ia 
This gTot, than e'er I felt before in 
A palace — and with thoughts still soaring 

To God on high. 
Each night and morn with viiice imploring. 

This wish I sigh. 
" Let me, oh Lord ! from life retire. 
Unknown each guilty worldly tire. 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire; 

And when I die. 
Let me in this belief expire^ 

To God 1 fly." 
Stranger, if full of youth and riot, 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet. 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 

The hermit's prayer — 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care ; 
If thou hast known false love's vexation. 
Or hast been exiled flora thy nation. 
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation. 

And makes thee pine. 
Oh ! how must thou lament thy station, 

Acdeiivy miuel 



2}rrsri 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNET- 

PIECE, IN THE PARLOUH OF THE INN AT KEH- 

MORE, TAY MOUTH. 

4.DMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, 
lliese northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
O'er many a winding dale and jjainful steep, 
Th' aliodes of covied grouse and timid sheep. 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Fill fam'd Breadelbane opens to my view. 
The meetiug cliffs eachdeep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 
Bdes; 

16 



Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong 

the hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazemen t fills ; 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, wood-fring'i in Nature's native 

taste ; [haste ; 

The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless 

The arches, striding o'er the new-boru 

stream ; [beam— 

The village, glittering in the nooutida 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
Lone waud'riiig by the hermit's mossy cell i 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught 

lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd 
Misfortune's hghten'd steps might wander 

wild ; 
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling 

wounds : [stretch her scan. 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 
And mjur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



(£lpgij nil till! i.atlj nf f nril ^rrsiiiriit 
IDiiiiilas. (206) 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flock? 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; [rains, 

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant 

plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groar ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moau. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling wavesi 
Unhearfl, unseen, by human ear or eye. 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar 
Pale Scotia's recent wound 1 may deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her 

rod; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sank, abandon'd to the wilde it woe. 
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome deo. 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men « 



168 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Bee from his caTcrn grim Oppression ris^ 
Aud throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
A-ud stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry. 
Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting InnoceiJio a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: 
'While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
Tlie life-blood equal sucks of Right and 

Wrong : ' [tale. 

Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd 
And niuch-wrong'd mis'ry pours th' uripitied 

Wail ! 
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly 

plams. 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. 
Be nameless wilds aud lonely wanderings 

mine. 
To mourn the woes ray country must endure. 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



"V^'TTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL 
OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Akong the heathy hills and ragged woods ; 
Trie foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods. 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 
Where, thro' a shapeless beach, lus stream 

resounds, 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 
As deep-recoiling surges foam below. 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet 

descends. 
And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 
Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs; 
Still thro' the gap the strugghiig river toils. 
And still below, the horrid cauldiou boils — 



CN nJi-tU NG IN A NEWSPAPER 

Cflii! Dratlj nf Snijn Jll'ICrnii, foil., 

aUOTHEB TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICt'- 
LAK FRIEND OP THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms — 
Death tears the brother of hei love 

From Isabella's arms. 
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 

Tlie morning rose may blow, 
liut cold successive noontide blasia 

May lay its beauties low. 



Fair on Isabella's mom 
The sun propitious smil'd. 

But, long ere noon, succeeding dowls 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 
That Nature finest strung ; 

So Isabella's heart was forra'd. 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power. 
Strong as he shares the griet 

That pierces Isabella's heart. 
To give that heart rehef. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 

Can heal the wound he gave— 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyw 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow. 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shiill happy be at last. 



Shrew'd Willie Smellie to Crochallan (208) 
came, [same; 

The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, th? 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas foiu: long nights aud days to shaving 
night ; [thatch'd 

His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, 
A head for thought profound aud clear uu 

match'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
liis heart was warm, beuevolent, aud ^ood. 



5l!iiirr55 tn 5llr. ^3311113111 €tkt. 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BAUD'S 
PICTURE. (209) 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart a name once respected — 

A name which to love was tlie mark of a trofl 
heart. 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho' something like moiiture conglobes in 
my eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; [sigh, 
A jioor frieudless waud'rer may well claim a 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rtver'd on a 
throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; [sou. 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 

That uame should he scothngly slight it 




^1^ 




TO CLARINDA. 



161 



Still in prayers for King George I most hear- 
tily join. 

The Uiieen, and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish^ is nothing of 
mine ; 

Their title's avowed by my country. 
But why of that epocha make such a fusa, 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was hicky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 
But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous 
ground, 

\Mio knows how the fashions may alter ? 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. 

To-morrow may bring us a halter ! 
I send you a trifle, a liead of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint's dyuig prayer. 
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 

And ushers the long dreary night ; [eye. 
But you like the star that athwart gilds the 

Your course to the latest is bright, [sky 



51 Ikrtrlf. (210) 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart tripping wight. 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
Who loves his own smart shadow in tlie 

streets. 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Jjearn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour 
8o travelled monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense— by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell 1 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend 
Still makmg work his selfish craft must mend. 



®n ffiios (Cruiksljanlts. 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. (211) 

XTEITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OP A BOOK PEK- 
SENIED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never niay'st thou, lovely flow'r» 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r; 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Eurus' poisonous breath. 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely blights! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf ' 



Nor even Sol loo fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew I 
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gen^ 
Richly deck thy native stem : 
'Till some evening, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland riiigj, 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The lovehest form she e'er gave birtx 



lit (BrtrmpnrE Cffiisinn, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISS 

Searching auld wives barrels, 

Och, hon I the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But — what' 11 ye say ! 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weaiia^ 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 



Cn (Clarink, 

WITH A PRESENT OP A PAIR OF DRINKINS 
GLASSES. (212) 

Fair Empress of the Poet's sou^ 

And Queen of Poetesses ! 
Clarinda, take this little boon. 

This humble pair of glasses. 
And fill them high with generous juiee^ 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

" The whole of human kind ! " 
"To those who love us! " — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest us love those who love not us !— 

A third — " To thee and me, love I ** 



Qfn (Clariniifi, 

ON HIS LEAVING EDINBUROB. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pote 

So marks his latest sun. 
To what dark cave of froz«a night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and lightj 

The sun of all his joy. 
We part — but, by these precious Atofgi 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my stcpe 

Till thy bright beams arise. 
She, the fair sun of all her sex. 

Has blest my glorious day ; 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray ? 




170 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ep^Ws tn iiiglj f&ikn. (213) 

In this strange laud, this uncouth chme, 

A laud uuknowu to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crossed the muse's 

Is or limpet in poetic shackles ; [heckles, 

A land that prose did uever view it. 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it ; 

Here, ambush'd hy the chimla cheek, 

Hid iu au atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the ueuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. 

Tire red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here for my w'onted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters, 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

\Vi' nae converse but GaUowa' bodies, 

\Vi' nae-kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes. 

Jenny, my Pegase'>n pride ! 

Dowie she sauut<:rs down Nithside, 

And aye a westlin heuk she throws. 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care. 

Thou bure the Bard through many a sldre ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 

And late or early never grumbled ? 

Oh, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation. 

To canter with the Sagiturre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ! 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race. 

And cast dirt on his godship's face; 

For 1 could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast salt upo' thy tail. 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief. 

And sma', sma' prospect of relief. 

And nought but peat-reek i' my head 

How can 1 write what ye can read ? 

Tarholton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'U find me in a better tune; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excii:se for uae epistle. 

KOBERT BUBNS. 



ai^rittm 

XW JEIARS' CARSE HERMITAGE, ON TUB 
BANKS OF NITH. (214). 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these maxims on thy souL 
life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night ; in darkness loat ; 
Day, how rapid in its flight — 
Day, how few must see the night; 



Hope not sunshine every hour. 

Fear not clouds will always lower. 

Happiness is but a nan>e. 

Make content and ease thy aim. 

Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 

Fame a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Rou nd Peace, the tend'rest flower of Spr "n^ 

Those that sip the dew alone. 

Make the butterflies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour. 

Crush the locusts — save the flower. 

For the future be prepar'd. 

Guard wherever thou can'st guard; 

But thy utmost duly done. 

Welcome what thou can'st not shrto. 

Follies past, give thou to air. 

Make their consequence thy care : 

Keep the name of man m mind. 

And dishonour not thy kind. 

Reverence with lowly heart. 

Him whose wondrous work thou art} 

Keep his goodness still iu view, 

Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go ; Heaven be thy guide I 

Uuoth, the Beadsman on Nithside 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soiiL 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly daucc^ 

Beneath thy morning star advance. 

Pleasure \rith her siren air 

May delude the thoughtless pair ; 

Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup^ 

Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up, 

As thy day grows warm and high. 

Life's meridian flaming nigh. 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 

liife's proud summits would'st thou scaKlf 

Check thy cliaibing step elate. 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 

Soar around each cliffy hold, 

■While cheerful peace, with linnet song; 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning thee to long repose. 

As life itself becomes disease. 

Seek the chimney-neuk of ease ; 

There ruminate with sober thought. 

On all thon'st seen, and heard, and wrougilt| 

And teach the spm'tive younkers round, 

Saws of experience, sage and souimI, 




ELEGY. 



Say, man's true, genuine estiiiiatBi 
The grand criterion Oi his fate. 
Is not — art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wast thou cottager or king ? 
Peer or peasant ?— no such" thinj! 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind. 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of a« ful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 
Lead to the wretched, vile and base. 
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Kight, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 
Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Uuoth, the Beadsman of Nith-side. 



I 3tlntlirr*5 famrnt. 

FOR THE DEATH OP HER SON. (216) 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. 
And pierc'd my darling's heart ! 

And with him all the joys are fled 
life can to me impart. 



(BitrmprB tn Captain f\ili!irl, 

0» GLENRIDDLE, ON RETURNING A 
NEWSPAPER. (215) 

Ellisland, Monday Evening 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, ! 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
Tlie papers are barren of home-new3 or 
foreign. 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 
Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers 
and hewers. 
Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; 
liut of 7>ieet or unmeet, in di fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 
tly goose-quill too rude is to tell all your 
goodness 
Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; 
iVould to God I had one hke a beam of the 
sun. 
And then all the world. Sir, should know it \ 



By cruel hands the sapling drop% 
In dust dishonour'd laid : 

So fell the pi ide of all my hope% 
My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'dthy fatal blow. 

Now, fond I bare my breast. 
Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest I 



(Sbglf 

OW THE YEAR 1788. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
Een let them die — for that they're borai 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A towmout, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
Oh Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
^A'hat dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us I 
In w hat a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head. 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our guidwife's wee birdie cocisa; 
The tane is game, a blnidie devil. 
But to the hen-birds unco civil : 
llie tither's something dear o' treadin*. 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 
Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit* 
And cry till ye be hoarse or roupit, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. 
And gied you a' baith gear and meal; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck. 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses' dight your e'en. 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en. 
What j'e'U ne'er hae to gie again. 
Observe the very nowte and sheep. 
How dowf and dowie now they creep j 
Nay, even the yirth ilsel' does cry. 
For Erabro' wells are grutteu dry. 

Oh Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
And no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care. 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cutf'd, muzzl'd, hap-shacU'd R* 
But like himsel', a full free ag(!ut, [geuti 
Be sure ye follov/ out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest maal 
As muckle better as you (;au. 



16' 





^^M7 



BURNS'S POEllCAL WORKS. 



Bhm tn tip! tolll-i^rlji!. 

. ' Y curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
■ "lat shoots my tortur'd gums ahing ; 
dd thro' my Uigs gies mouy a twaug, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
_ ,aring my nerves wi' l)itter pang. 

Like racking engines '. 
Wi\en fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cliclic squeezes ; 
Our neighi)our's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groau ! 
Ado^vn my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle. 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
WTiile, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 
O' a' the num'rous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
Tlie tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools — 

Thou bear'st the gree. 
■V^Hiere'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
■^A'hence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 
Oh thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel. 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gorf a shoe-thick ! — 
Gie a' t'ne faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothache 1 



BA.CRBD «) THE MEMORY OF MKS. 
OSWALD. (217) 

DvTF.LLER in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow-weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonoured years. 
Noosing with care a bursting purse. 
Baited with many a deadly curse I 

STROPHE. 

View the witheT'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sw eet melting grace ? 

Kote that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflovi's, 

rity's flood there never rose. 

Bee these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Uauds that took — but never gave. 



Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and uibicst 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! 

ANTISTROPIIE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hithet 

bends ? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skiei; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 
She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-yeai? 

In other words, can Mammon faU, 

Onniipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wTCtched vital part is drivMf 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscienc» 

clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



f riirr tn ^atnrs tHrnnant, 

OF GLENCONNEE. (218) 

AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinne^ 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner? 
How do you this blae, eastlin wind. 
That's like to blaw a body blind? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
And ilka member nearly dozeu'd. 
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on :— 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
And Reid, to common sense appeahng. 
Pliilosophers have fought and wrangled. 
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled. 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 
And in the depth of science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives and wabsters see and feel. 
But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictSjl 
Peruse them, and return them quickly. 
For now I'm grown sae ciupcd douce 
I pray and ponder butt the house ; 
l\Iy shins, my lane, I there ait roastin'. 
Perusing Btniyan, Brown, and Bostou| 
Till bye and bye, if I baud on, 
I'll grunt a blouset gospel groan: 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my e'en up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'ei, 
Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore: 
Sue shortly you shall see me bright, 
A l^uruing and. a shining light. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HAKE. 



178 



ATy heart-warm love to gnid auld Glen, 

TliE ace and wale o' honest men: 

When bending down wi' anld grey hairs. 

Beneath the load of years and cares, 

May He who made him still support him. 

And views beyond the grave comfort him. 

His worthy fam'ly, far and near 

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher WilUe, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy, 

May he he dad, find Meg the mither. 

Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 

And no forgetting wabster Cliarlie, 

I'm told he offers very fairly. 

And, Lord reinember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, sexpence, and a bannock; 

And nest my auld acquaintance Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

And her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

]\Iy kindest, best respects I sen' it. 

To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 

I'ell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 

For, faith, they'll aiblins tin' them fashious. 

And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel. 

May guardian angels tak a spell. 

And steer you seven miles south o' hclL 

But first, before you see heaven's glory, 

J.Iay ye get mony a merry story, 

Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 

And aye enough o' ueedfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' yon 

For my sake this 1 beg it o' you. 

Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 

Ye'U fiu' him just an honest man : 

Bae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 

Yonr's, saiut or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



i /rjignrrnt. 

INECRIBED TO THE EIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How w isdora and folly meet, mix and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and 

their white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — [bustle, 
I sing: if these mortals, the critics, should 
I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But Tiow for a patron, whose name and 

whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

rhou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Ifet whose parts and acquirements seem 
mere lucky hits; 



With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 
so strong, [wrung ; 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ;— 
A sorry, poor mishegot son of the muse^. 
For using thy name oflers fifty excuses. 

Good Ij — d, what is man ? for as simple he 
looks ; [crooks. 

Do but try to develope his hooks and his 

With his depths and his shallows, his good 
and his evil, [deviL 

All in all he's a problem must puzzle the 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours. 
That, like th' Hebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours ; 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would 

you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture 

will show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system.. 
One trifling, particular truth should havi 

miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic position*, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities, each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe; 
Have you found this, or t'other! there's 

more in the wind, [you'll find. 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd 

man. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 
Nor even two different shades of tlie same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to 

brother, [other. 

Possessing the one shall imply you've the 



^n Irring a l^nnnilrh iarf 

LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW. HAD JUST 
SHOT. (219J 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field f 
The bitter little that of life remains ; 
No more the thickenii/g brakes and vet< 
dant plains 

To thee shall home, or fo id, or pastime yield 



174 



BCfUSrS'S POETICAL WOKES. 



Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 

rest. 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 

head, 

Tlie cold' earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerfid dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hi^pless fate. 



©;b Hirk's ijllarnt 

A SATIRE. (220) 

Okthodox, orthodox, 

Wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 

There's a heretic blast 

Has been blawu in the wast. 
That what is no sense must be nousenae. 

Dr. Mac (221), Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack. 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence. 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr (222), town of Ayr, 

It was mad, I declare. 
To meddle mi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John (223) is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob (224) is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild (225), D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child. 
And your life like the new-driven snaw. 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Auld Satan must have ye, 
For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John (226), Rumble John, 

Mount the steps wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; 

Then lug out your ladle. 

Deal brimstone like adie, 
Aiul roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James (227), Simper Jamei, 

Leave the fair Killie dames. 
There's a holier chase in your view ; 

I'll lay on your head, 

That the pack ye'U soon lead. 
For puppies like you, there's but few. 

Singet Sawney (228), Singet Sawney, 

Are ye huirding the penny. 
Unconscious what evil await ; 

Wi, a jump, yell, and howl. 

Alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is jusf. at your gata 



Daddy Auld (220), Daddy Aidd, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod raeikle waur than rhe clerk (230) 

Tliough ye do na skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death. 
And if ye canua bite, j e may bark, 

Davie Bluster (231), Davie Blugtac, 

If for a saint ye do muster. 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to worth let's be just. 

Royal blood ye might boast. 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jaray Goose (232), Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose. 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the Doctor's your mark. 

For the L — d's haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cavvt a wrong pin JB*! 

Poet Willie (233), Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your liberty's Chain and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid a stride. 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he • 

Andro Gouk (234), Andro Gouk, 

Ye may slander the book. 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; 

Ye are rich, and look big. 

But lay by hat and wig, 
Ax.d ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie (235), Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle uae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may hae some pretence 

To havins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye know better. 

Irvine side (236), Irvine side, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride. 
Of manhood but sma' is your sliare ; 

Ye've the figure, 'tis true. 

Even your faes will allow. 
And your friends they dare grant you nas 
mair. 

Muirland Jock (237), Muirland Jotk, 

When the Lord makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins. 

If ill manners were wit. 

There's no mortal so tit 
To confound the poor Doctor at anoe. 

Holy Will (238), Holy W^ll, 

There was wit i' your skull, 
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poW j 

The timmer is scant. 

When ye're ta'eu for a saunt, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an honi 



SKETCH— NEW TEAI^S DAT. 



m 



Calvin's sons, Cah in's sons. 

Seize your spir'tual guns, 
iii/iaiiuitioii you never can need; 

Your hearts are tlie stuff, 

Will be poNVther enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Bums, 

Wi' your priest-skelpiu"; turns, 

\^liy desert ye your auld native sliire? 
Your muse is a gipsie : 
E'en though sh|(were tipsie. 

She could ca' us nae waur than we an. 



afn Dr. 3Blarklnrk, 

IK ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

ElUsland, 2\st Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? 
I kenu'd it still your wee bit jauntie. 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye. 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! (239) 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chield in trouth. 

And bade (240) nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' saule to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
Pm turned a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans, 1 fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me I 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics, 

Y^e ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

1 nae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

Tliey maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 

1 need na vaunt. 
But I'D sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 



Lord help me thro' this warld V care* 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men britliers f 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van. 
Thou stalk d' carl hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er waa 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' tim^) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

'Po weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life, 

]My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
1 wat she is a dainty chuckle. 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

KOBERT BCRRB 



©rlia. (241) 

Fair the face of orient day. 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose; 

But fairer still my Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty shows. 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 

But, Delia, more delightful still. 
Steal thine accents on mine car> 

The flower-enamoured busy bee. 
The rosy banquet loves to sin ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid la )s« 
To the suu-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rov©; 

Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss. 

For, oh 1 my soul is parched with Io«». 



TO MRS DUNLOP. (242) 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chaii^ 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, full routiue. 



176 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tlie absent lover, minor heir. 
In vain assail iiim with their jirayer ; 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Kor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's (243) with the hounds. 
The happy tenants share hia rounds ; 
Coila's fare Rachel's (244) care to-day, 
And bloomins!: Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
And join with me a-morahzing: 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternig-ht deliver ? 
" Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on ! " 
Rest on — ^for whatV what do we here? 
Or wi.y rogard the passing year? 
Will time, amiis'd with proverb'd lor^ 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp ouj; bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss I 
The voice of Nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skics^ 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state. 
Hang matters of eternal weight : 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Jlnst take its hue from this alone; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
Or dark as misery's woeful night, 
Siuce, then, my honour'd, first of frienda. 
On this poor being all depends. 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



|5riilngiif, 

eyOKBN AT THE THEATRE, DtTMFKTES, ON 

new-year's-day evening. [1790] 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's 

the pity : 
Tlio', by-the-bye, abroad why will you 

roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at 

home : 
But not for panegyric 1 appear, 
I come to wihlt you all a good new year I 



Old Father lime deputes me here before yt. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: 
The sage grave ancient cougli'd, and badf 

me say, 
" You're one year older this important day." 
If wiser, too — he hinted some suggestion. 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask tlj« 

question ; 
And with a would-be rogu'sh leer and wini, 
Kc bade me on you preaa this oue word— 

" think I " 

Ye sprightly youths quite flushed with hope 

and spirit, 
Wlio think to storm the world by dint of 

merit. 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtlesi 

rattle. 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to 

snatch him. 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. 
That w hether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
Y'ou may do miracles by perseverving. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
AngeUc forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wruikled 

brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important 

Now 1 
To crown your happiness he asks your leaver 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours. 
With gratefid pride we own your ULaiiv 

favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



'^.Vnlngiif, 

FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit nigh*. 

DUMFRIES. 

What needs this din about the town c^ 

Lon'on, 
How this new play and that new sang if 

comin' ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? 
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when io» 

ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hamef 
For comedy abroad he needna toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Groece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 







«^^i:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,iiiKiiiiiui!iiiii!iiiriii,iiiiii:iiiiii/v 



PEG NICHOLSON. 



177 



There's t1i 'raes enough in Caledonian story. 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless 

fell ? 
W here are the mnses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce , 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lordj 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
W'renchki his dear countrv from the jaws of 

ruin? 
Oh for a Sliakspeare or an Otway scene 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Uueen ! 
Vain all th' oranipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion*! 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman — tho' the phrase may seem un- 
civil — 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives iu Home's immortal page. 
But Douglasses were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife. 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right suc- 
ceeds. 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the 

hand ; 
Not otdy hear, but patronise, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them ; 
And aiblius when they winna stand the test, 
Wuik hard and say the folks hae done their 

best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be cau- 
tion 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack. 
And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! 
For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Wha s aught thae duels maks a' this bua- 

tle here?'' 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your axz baurns, e'en guide us as ye 

like. 
But like gude mithers, shore before you 

strike. 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks ; 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get 

but thaLks. 



mntftt 



TO A OKNTT.EMAN WHO HAD SENT TirE POET A 

NKWSP.iPEU, AND Oi FEHKD TO CONTINUE IT 

FREE OF EXPENSE, 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. 

And, faith, to me 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye. Sir, what maist I wanted f 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. 

To ken what French mischief was brewiu'. 

Or what the drnmlie Dutch, were doin'; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the 'i'urka ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Woidd play anither Charles the Twalt: 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingiu ; 
How libbet Italy was singin ' ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss ; 
Or how our merry lads at hame. 
In Britain's court, kept up the game ; 
How royal George, the Lord leuk f. a 

him ! 
Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin'. 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 

Or if bare yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girla; 
If that daft buckle, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails : 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. 
And na o' perfect kintra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of. 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you. 
And pray, a' guid things may atteud you ' 
EllUland, Monday Morning. 



f Eg Hirjinlsnii. (245) 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

As ever trod on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nitl^ 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wanting e'en the skin. 



178 



BUENS'S POEnCAL WORKS. 



Pejr Nicholson was a g;ood bay mare. 

And aiice she bore a priest ; 
But now she's float inir down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 
Peg: Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

And the priest lir^ rode her sair ; 
And miirh oppressed and bruis'd she was, 

A3 pnest-rid cattle are — 



8fn Bill m. (246) 

TiiotJ bed, in which I first bep-an 

To be that various creature — Man! 

And v.heu again the Fates decree, 

The place where I must cease to be ;— 

When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 

To soothe my pain, or close mine eye ; — 

"When cares surround me, where I weep. 

Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — 

"When sore with labour, whom I court. 

And to thy downy breast resort — 

Where, too ecstatic joys I find. 

When deigns my Delia to be kind— 

And full of love, in all her charms, 

Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms. 

The centre thou^where grief and pain. 

Disease and rest, alternate reign. 

Oh, since withhi thy little space. 

So many various scenes take place ; 

licssons as useful shalt thou teach. 

As sages dictate — cliurchmen preach ; 

And man, convinced by thee alone. 

This great important truth shall own : 

" That thin partitions do divide 

Thn hounds where r/ood and ill reside; 

That nought is perfert here below; 

But BLISS sldl bordering upon woe." (247) 



/irst B^Mt tn Mt. Qnljm 

OF FINTRY. 

When Nature nergreatmasterpiecedesigned, 
Aud fram'd her last best work, the human 

mind. 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
Slie formed of various parts the various man. 
Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of 

earth, [birth: 

And merchandise' whole genus take their 
TIach prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
Aud all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gios-t desires [squires ; 
M»kes a material for mere knights and 



The martial phosphorus is taught '» flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with gravi 

designs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the pules, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 
The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she cried one curious labour moift 
Some spumy, fiery, ig)iis fatuus m:itter. 
Such as the shghtest breath of air might 

scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to showit) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet^ 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow, 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — aud there the hoiuajjo 

ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 
Yet frequently unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'datfirst, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one 1 claim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteoui 

Graham. 
Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main! 
Tneir hearts no seltish stern absorbent stuff. 
That never gives — tho' hmnbly takes enough; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
D alike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want « 

friend!" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
WTio make poor will do wait upon / should— 
We own they're prudent, but who feeli 

they're good! 
Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! 
God's image rudely etf.h'd on base alloy ! 
But. come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distuiguished — to bestow I 



THE FIVE CARLINES. 



179 



Wb(v«e Rims of love would grasp the humaa 

race; [grace; 

Come thou 'vho giv'st with all a courtier's 
Friend of ray life, true patron of my rhymes! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soulhalfbtushing.half afraid. 
Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid? 
1 know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 
Buttherearej -ch whocourt thetunefuluine — 
Heavens! should the branded character be 

mine! [flows. 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song 

ascends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends, 
lu all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige thera, patronise their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain! 
My horny fist issurae the plough again ; 
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; 
On eighteen-peiice a-week Pve liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift ! 
I trust, nieaucime, my boon is in thy gift: 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'dfor i 

height, 
V.Tiere, man and nature fairer in her sight. 
My muse may imp her wing for some sub 

limer flight. 



Jftit fin Carlinrs. (248) 

There were five carlines in the south. 

They fell upon a scheme. 
To send a lad to Lou'on town. 

To bring them tidings hame. 

Nor only bring them tidings hanu^ 

But do their errands there. 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that If-ddies share. 

There wa? IMaggy Dy the bmks o' Nith, 

A dame with pride eneugh. 
And Marjory o' the Mouylocha, 

A carliue auld and teugh. 

And blinkir.' Bess o' Annandale, 
That dnelt near ISolwayside, 

lud whi-ky Jean, that took her gill, 
lu Galloway sae wide. 



17 



And black Joan, frie Crichton Ptal, 

O' gipsy kith and kin — 
Five wighter carlines warna fouu' 

The south countra witliin. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town. 

They met upon a day. 
And mony a knight, and mony a lair^ 

Their errand fain would gae. 

O mony a knight and many a laird. 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy pleas^ 

O ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first he was a belted knight (249), 

Bred o' a border clan. 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

flight nae man him withstan'. 

And he wad do their errands wee^ 

And meikle he wad say. 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to him guid day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth (250)^ 

And spak wi' modest grace. 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

If sae their pleasure was. 

He wadna hecht thera courtly gifti^ 

Nor meikle speecli pretend. 
But he wad hecht an honest hearty 

Wad ne'er desert a friend. 

Now, wham to choose, and wham refuse^ 

At strife their carlines fell I 
For some had gentle folks to please. 

And some would please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd IMeg o' Nitl^ 

And she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth. 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld gr.idraan o' Lon'on court (251) 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. (252) 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, 

And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
Ttat she wad vote the border knight. 

Though she should vote her laue. 

For far-aff fowls hae feathers fair. 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I hae tried the border knigh^ 

And I'll try him yet again. 

Says black Joan frae Crichton Pee^ 

A carline stoor and grim. 
The auld guidraan, and the young guidmaiv 

For me may smk or swim ; 



180 



BTJRNSS POETICAL WOKK& 



For fools will freat c' ri^ht or \tTang, 
While knaves laugh them to scorn; 

But the sodger's frieuds hae biawn the 
best, 
So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink. 

Ye weel ken, kiniiners a', 
Tlie auld guidman o' Lou'on court. 

His back's been at the wa'; 

And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup. 

Is now a frerait wight: 
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — 

I'll send the border knight. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 

And WTinkled was i>er brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet grey. 

Her auld Scots bluid was true ; 

There's some great folks set light by me — 

I set as light by them; 
But I will send to Lou'on town 

Wham I like best at hame. 

Bae how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
God grant the khig and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 



Bmviti (Jspistlr In Mt- (Prajmni, 

OF FINTRY. (253). 

FiNTRT, my stay in worldly strife. 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try liim. 

ni sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
^lio left the all-inipiirtant cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
j»nd bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster louus. 

And kissing barelit carUiis. 

Ccrabustion through our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad. 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd. 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war. 
The unmanuei'd dust might soil his star. 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind hmi heroes bright, 
H<roes in Cjesarean hght 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 



O for a throat like huge Mons-meg [2Z4^ 
To muster e'er each ardent W^hig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners i 
Heroes and heroines (ommix 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honours. 

M'lMurdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enainour'd laurels kiss her browt^ 

Led on the lo\es and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart 
W^hile he, all conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-arm' d corps; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Ijke Hecla streaming thunder ; 
Glenriddel, skiH'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Scaig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory. 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet fliuch'd his ground! 
High wav'd his magmim bouum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up the artillery ranlu^ 
The many pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ; 
WTiile Maxwelton, that baron bold. 
Mid Lawson's port entrench' d his hold. 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these, what Tory hosts onpos'd ; 
With these, what Tory warriors clos'd* 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush'd to the chaj^ 

Like raging devils driving. 

Wliat verse can sing, what prose narrate^ 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid tli.s mighty tulzie ? 
Grim horror gnnn'd ; pale terror roar'd 
As murther at his thrapple shor'd; 

Aaid hell mixt in the bruizie I 

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft. 
When lightnings lire the stormy lift. 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle ; 
As flames amang a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods : 

Such is the rage of battle. 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly. 

Before th' approaching fellers ; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's nar 
Wlun all his wintry billows pour 

Agamst the Buchan Buller^ [251^ 



CAPTAm GKOSE'S PEREGEINATIONS. 



ISl 



Lo, from the shar'es of death's deep night. 
Departed A\'hijis enjoy the ti<;ht. 

And think on former daring; 
The mnttied nmrtherer of Charles (256), 
The Majrna Ciiarta flag; unfurls. 

All deadly f^ules its bearing. 

Nor wantin<r g;hosts of Tory fame; 
Bold Scrini>;euur (257) follows gallant Gra- 
hame^(258) 

Auld Covenanters shiver — 
(Foro:ive, forgive, much-wrono'd !Montrose ! 
While death and hell engidf thy foes. 

Thou liv'st on high for ever ! ) 

Still o'er the field the combat bums ; 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But fate the word has spoken — 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can — 

The Tory ranks are broken ! 

Oh that my e'en were flowing bums ! 
My voice a lioTiess that mourns 

Her darling cub's undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry. 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

AA^hat Wh\g b\it wails the good Sir Jamea ; 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, Patron, Benefactor? 
Not Pulteny's wealth can Pulteny save ! 
And Ilopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stuart bold as Hector ! 

Tliou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow. 
And Thnrlow growl a curse of woe. 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Biirke shall sing, " Oh prince, arise ! 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! " 

For your poor ft-iend, the Bard afar. 
He hears, and only hears tiie war, 

A cool spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest renda. 
The robin in the hedge descends 

And sober chirps securely. 



^ Captain <!Frn5t'3 ^.^rrrgrinalinns 

THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING TIIE 
ANTiaUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. (259) 

Hear, land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk (260) to Johnny Groata; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chicLi's amang you takhig notes. 

And, faith, he'll preut it. 



If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a tine, fat fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark wecl— 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld houlet-haunted biggin 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say. Lord save's ! colleagufai' 

At some black art. 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer. 

Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour. 

And you, deep-read in hell's black graramm 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'U quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midjiight bitches. 

It's taiild he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blades 

And dog skin wallet. 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets. 
Rusty aird caps and jnighn' jackets, 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tacket% 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backetay 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's tire-sliool and fendert 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

W^eel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you alf, fu' gle^ 
The cut of Adam's philubeg ; 
The knife that nicket Aliel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully. 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lung-kail gully. 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guivl 'ellows wi' him. 
And port. Oh port ! siiine tiiou a wee. 

And then ye'll see him ; 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, oh Grose 1 — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the no?e, 

Wad aay, shaue fa' the^ 




WW 




182 



BUIl>TS'S POETICAL WOEKS, 



IJJrittra in an fnnrlnpr, 



ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAiW 
GROSE. (261) 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grosef 

Io;o and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes? 

Irani, coram, dago. 
1b he south or is he north ? 

Igo and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
It he slain by Hi;;hlan' bodies ? 

Igo and ago. 
And eaten like a wether liaggis ' 

Iram, coram, dago. 
It he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Where'er he be, the Lord be uear him ; 

Igo and ago, 
As for the deil, he daurna steer hiuL 

Irani, coram, dago. 
But please transmit tlie enclosed letter, 

Igo and ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye hae aidd stanes iu stor% 

Igo uud ago, 
llic very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo and ago. 
The coins o' Sacan's coronation! 

Lram, coram, dago. 



3itirrD5 nf 23rrl;rliuli 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UIQHIANI: 
SOCIETY. (262) 

Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, 
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord graat nae daddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
Jlay twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes— as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Ili^hland hounds in sight; 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water; 
Then up amang thrae lakes and seas 
They'll rnak what rules and laws they please ; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin' ; 
Some Washington again may head them. 
Or some Mnntgomery, fearless, lead them. 
Till God knows what may be etfected 
When by such heads and hearts directed — 



Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor «ager SackviHe, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
f And whare will ye get Howes and Cliutona 
To bring them to a ri;rht repentance. 
To cowe the rebel generation. 
And save the honour o' the nation ? 

They and be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or lisht o' day ? 

Far less to riches, pow'r or freedom. 

But what your lordship likes to gie themf 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear I 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and banie% 

I canna say but they do g'lylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies. 

And tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; 

I^t wark and hunger mak tliera sober ! 

The luzzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont^ 

Let them in Drury-lane be lessou'd ! 

And if the wives and dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors and yetta 

Flaffan wi' duds and grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa your deucks and geese. 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 

And gar the tattered gypsies' pack 

^T^i' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, ray Lord ! I lang to meet you. 

And in my house at haiue to greet youj 

Wi' common lords ye siianna mingle. 

The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 

At my right ban' assigned your seat 

'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate— 

Or if you on your station tarrow. 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 

Aud tUl ye come — Your humble servant, 

Beelzebus 
•TiiiM lit. Anno Mundi, 5790. 



f amrnt nf ^Harij diurrn nf ?rnt3, 

ON THE APPROACH OP SPRING. 

No's? Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree. 
And spreads her sheet o' daises white 

Out o'er the grassy Ice : 
Now Phrebus clieers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast iu durance lies. 



THE W HISTLE. 



183 



Nkw /av';ocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing-; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r 

JMakes woodland echoes ring : 
Ihe mavis wild wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care not tiirall opprest. 
Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

'I'lie primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotlaud 

May rove tiieir sweets amang ; 
Ent 1, the Ur.een of a' Scotland, 

M-dUZi. he in prison Strang ! 
I was the Qneen o' bonnie France. 

\\'liere happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lighdy rase I in the morn. 

As blytlie lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I he in foreign bauds. 

And never-ending care. 
But as for thee, thou false woman! 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitymg e'e. 
Illy son ! my sou ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shme ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 

That ne'er wad blnik on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes. 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend. 

Remember him for me ! 
Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn 1 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn wiuda 

M'ave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave : 
Ajid the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom ou my peaceful grave 1 



Ctit Xl'ljilitlF. (263). 

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I suig of a whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good 
Scottish king, [shall ring. 

And long with this whistle all Scotland 

17 



Old Loda, (264) still rueing the arm ot 
Fingal, riiall— 

The god of the bottle sends down from his 

"This whistle's your chaUeuge — to Scotland 
get o'er, [me more !" 

And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see 

Old poets have sung, and old chroL'.cles 
tell, [fell ; 

W^hat champions ventur'd, what champioua 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

TiU Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, [war, 

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in 

lie drank his poor godship as deep as th* 
sea. 

No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 
gain'd, [remained ; 

WHiich now in his house has fur ages 

Till three noble chieftains, and all of liia 
blood. 

The jovial contest again have renew'd. • 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 
as flaw ; [law ; 

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

And trusty Gleuriddel, so skill'd in old 
coins ; [wines. 

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read iu old 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 

as oil. 
Desiring Glenriddle to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the 

clan, [the man. 

And once more, in claret, try which was ig: 

"By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel 

replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Roiie 

More (265), [times o'er." 

And bumper his horn with him twenty 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would 
pretend, [or his friend, 

But he ne'er turned his back on his foe — 

Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of tha 
field, [yield. 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes 
repair [care ; 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and 

But for wine and for welcome not mora 
known to fame [lovely daiue 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet 

A bard was selected to witness the fray. 
And tell future ages the feats of the day; 



184 



BTJKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A bard who detestei bT sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Pa uaasus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being o'er the claret they ply. 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of uld friendship and kindred 
so set, [they were wet. 

And the bands grew the tighter the more 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a 
core, [forlorn. 

And vow'd that to leave them he was quite 
1111 Cyntliia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the 
night, [tight, 

■^iMien gallant Sir Robert, to finish the 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor 

did. 
Tlien worthy Glenriddel, no cautious and 
sage. [wage ; 

No longer the warfare, ungodly, would 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 
But who can with fate aud quart-bumpers 

contend ? 
Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light ; 
So up rose bright Phcebus — and down fell 

the knight. 
Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in 

drink: — [sink; 

"Craigdarrochjthou'ltsoar when creation shall 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the 

sublime! 
Thy line, that have struggled for freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel and mine be the bay; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god 

of day!" 



ON MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 
Kor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
Asthatwhichlaidth'accoraphshed Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 
In richest ore the b ightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 



In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet witli'thy flowery 
shore. 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge aud rushei 
stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens. 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all theif 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? 
And thou, sweet excellence! forsakeourearth, 

Aud not a muse in honest grief bewail '^ 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's bght, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou lef t'st us darkhng in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
Thathcart how sunk, apreytogriefandcare; 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



famrnt 

FOR JAMES, EAKL OP GLENCAIRN (26G.) 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's wiiuling stream: 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard. 

Laden with years and nieikle pain. 
In loud lament hewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient a'V, 

Whose truuk was mould' ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek \\a3 wet wi' tears; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful ^aiig. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their cavCij, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 
"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods chat shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, aud glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bnug again r :> me. 

I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood he wind and raJB 



THIRD EPISTLE TO ME. GEAHAM. 



18J> 



But iio\» nas come a cruel blast, 
A::,-l niy last hold of earth is gane : 

Nae leaf o' mine shall g-reet the spring, 
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 

But I maun lie before the storm. 
And ithers plant them iu my room. 

I've seen sae mony changefu' years. 

On earth I am a strano;er growa; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown: 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a that would my sorrows share. 

And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride ! his country's stay — 
In weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair 1 
And thou, my last, best, only friend. 

That fillest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

ITiou brought'st from fortune's miikest 
gloom. 

In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; 
Thiiugh oft I tiu-u'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun, 

'i'hat melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

Oh ! why has worth so short a date? 

"While villains ripen grey with time; 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall iu bold manhood's hardy prime! 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so fuil of woe! — 
Oh I had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low! 

Tlie bridegroom may forget the bride, 

^^'as made his wedded wife yestr«!i: 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 
Tlie mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

A.ud a' that thou hast done for me I * 



SENT TO Sni JOHN WIIITEFOTID, B.\RT., Of 
■WHITEFORD, WITH THE PilRKGOING POEM. 

Tnou, who thy honour as thy God revcr's^ 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought 

earthly fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart. 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued' st, I, the patron, lov'd: 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv''!; 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark 

world unknown. 



dFjiislIi! in Mx. I'raljaiiu 

OP FINTRY. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a lej. 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and depres^ 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's 

wail ? [tale), 

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 
And hear him curse the light he first 

survey'd, [trade ? 

And doubly curse the luckless rhyming 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal 1 complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found. 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou givs't the ass bis liide, the snail his 

shell, [ceU ; 

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his 
Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour. 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, [snug ; 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her di-eaded spear and 

darts ; — 
But, oh I thou bitter stepmother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 

Bard! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill. 
And half an idiot, too, more lielpless stih ; 
No heels to bear him from the op'niiig dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Uyme« 

worn. 
And those, alas I not Amalthea's horn • 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cuTi 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fiu :^ 



ise 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In nalvcd fcelinj;, and in acliin^r pride, 

Ee bears the uubrokeu blast from ev'ry 

side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Clitics ! — appaU'd I venture on the name, 
Tiiose cut-thi-oat bandits iu the pat lis of 
fame : [(267) 

Bloody dissectors, \rorse than ten Monroes ! 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung. 
By blockhead's daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants toru, who ne'er one sprig 

must wear : [strife, 

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal 
The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
Till 9cd each hope that once his bosom lir'd, 
And lied each muse that glorious once 

insjiired, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Pead, even resentment, for his hijur'd page. 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless 

critic's rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceased. 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By tod and iii.miue worn to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

Oh dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost or torrid beams. 
If maniling high she fdls the golden cup. 
With sober sellish case they sip it up : 
^ Conscious the bounteous meed they well 

deserve. 
They only w onder "some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easj picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
\\ hen disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disast'rous night they darkling 

grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune'* 

care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 
Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not siu'h the workings of then: moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns iu sjaiiug heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's father's fear! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, hes ia dust ; 



(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, seltish, pray'r!— 
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spate! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes trow n ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go 

down ; 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path. 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest 

breath, [death I 

With many a filial tear circling the bed 



/niirtjf iBpistlE in 3}lr. (Pralj™, 

OF F-NTBY ON EECEIVING A FAVOUll. (268) 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard tliat feigns; 
1 r.end of my life 1 my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 
Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giv er from my mind efliice. 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me,alang your wandering sphere^ 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



QijiP f\ig!it5 nf l^ninan. 

Air OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS 

FOM'E.NELLE ON HEll BENEFIT NIGHT. 

[NOV. 2G, 1792.] 

While Europe's eye is lix'd on mighty 

things. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce 

his plan. 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 
First, in the sexes' intermixed connection. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts if fate. 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending 

storm. 
Our second right — but needless here;, ia 

caution. 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion; 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
There was. indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk. Lick up a 

riot. 
Nay even thus mvade a lady's quiet. 



TO ME. MAXWELL. 



187 



K OTT, fhank our »tar3 ! these Gothic times 
lire fled ; [bred — 

Now, well-bred men — and you are all well 

Most ju:itly think (and we are much the 
gainers) [ners. (269) 

Buch conduct neither spirit, w:t, nor man- 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, [nearest. 

That right to fluttering female hearts the 
AVhich even the Rights of Kings in low 

prostration [tion ! 

Jlost humbly own — 'tis dear, dear adraira- 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move: 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, 

airs, 
''Gains't such an host what flinty savage 

dares ? — [charms, 

IMien awful Beauty joins with all her 
^Vho is so rash as rise hi rebel arms? 

But truce with kings and truce with consti- 
tutions. 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majesty your first attention summon. 
Ah! ca iral the majesty of woman. 



He sang wi' joy the former day. 
He weeping wail'd his latter times j 

But what he said it was nae play^ 
I wiuua vcutur't in my rhymes. 



f ilirrtii-S /ragrarnt. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among; 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes I 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! pies I 

Beneath the hiiUow'd turf where Wallace 
Hear it not, Wallace, iu thy bed of death 1 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war. 

That wont to bid the battle rage? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing 
Behold e'ckn grizzly death's majestic state 

When Freedom's sacred glauce e'eu dcatli 
is wearLusr. 



As T stood by yon roofless tower (270), 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. 
Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower. 

And tells the midnight moon her care; 
The winds were laid, the air was still. 

The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
The fox was howling on the hill. 

To the distant-echoing gleus reply. 
The stream, adown its hazelly path. 

Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whose distant roaring swells and fa'a. 
The cauld blue north was streaming forth 

Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 
Athwart the lift they start and shift. 

Like fortune's ftTours, tint as win. 
By heedless chance I tum'd mine eyes. 

And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 
ft. stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 
Had I a statue been o' stane. 

His darin' look had <i lunted me ; 
And « a his bonnet grav d was plain. 

The sacred motto — " Libertie !" 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

ilight rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear; 

But oh ! it was a tale of woe, 
Aj ever met a Briton's ear. 



Cii M:. JHaimcU, 

OP TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAT, 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief 1 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 
This day thou metes'st three score eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seveu 

Will yet bestow it. 
If envious buckles view wi' sorrow 
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrov. 
May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brimstane shoure — 
But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses boniiie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny. 

Bless them and thee ! 
Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye^ 
And then the deil he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If near'st my heart I dinna wear ye 

While BuENS th«y ca' mel 




#$iw 



183 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



m frAml f nrlrij. (271) 



Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 
Frie coininon sense, or sunk unnerv'd 

'ilang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och 1 owre aft thy joes hae starved. 

Mid a' thy favours ! 

Bay, Lassie, why thy train araang, 
Wliile loud, the trump's heroic clang. 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschjlus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; 
Wpp Pone, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survive! 

Ev'u Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; 
Squire Pope but busks liis skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hundred, nameless wretches. 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan 1 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallau, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o* time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever ! 

Thou paints auld nature to the uiuet, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the nnes. 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In goweny glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lasses L leach their claes; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey. 
Where bladcbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Tliy rural loves &re nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love ; 
That charm that can the stroiigest quell. 

The sternest move. 



Innnjt, 



WRITTEN ON THE 25lH JANUARY 1793, TBS 

BIKTHDA^ OP THE AUTHOIt, OX IIKAIUM A 

THUJSH SING IN A MOENINO WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafiest 
bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter, 'mid his lurly reign. 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek Content with light unanxioui 

heart, [p'-rt. 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids tlLeni 

Nor asks if they bring ou^ht t^ hope ot 

fear. 

I thank thee. Author of this opening day I 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds you 

orient skies ! 
Kiches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
W^hat wealth could never give nor takt 

away ! 
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mit« 
with thee I'll share. 



f jl? QTm nf fibrri;. (272) 

Heard ye o' the tree o' France, 

I watna what's the name o't ; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Europe kens the fame o't. 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man. 
When Superstition's hellish brood 

Kept France in leading strings, man. 

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit. 

Its virtue's a' can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the brute. 

It maks him ken himself, man. 
If auce the peasant taste a bit 

He's greater than a lord, man. 
And wi' the beggar shares a mit« 

0' a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth. 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man : 
To gie the sweetest blush o' health. 

And mak us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid friends, mas; 
And he wha acts the traitor's part. 

It to perdition sends, man. 

My blessings aye atteiul the chiel, 
Wha pitied Gallia's "laves, man, 

Ard staw'd a branch, spite o' the diHL 
i'rae ^tm't the w istern waves, maa 







MONODY. 



189 



Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care. 
Ami now she sees wi' pride, man 

How weel it buds and blossoms there. 
Its branches spreading wide, man. 

Cut vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o' Virtue thrive, man ; 
Tlie courtly vermin's banned the tree, 

And grat to see it thrive, man, 
Kin;r Loui' thought to cut it down. 

When it was unco' sma', man ; 
For this the watchman cracked his crown. 

Cut aff his head and a', man. 

A wicked crew syne, on a time. 

Did tak a solemn aith, man. 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

1 wat they pledjred their faith, man; 
Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade. 

Like beaj^les hunting game, man. 
But soon grew weary o' the trade. 

And wished they'd been at hame, man. 

For Freedom, standing by the tree. 

Her sons d.d loudly ca', man ; 
Bhe sang a song o' liberty. 

Which pleased them aiie and a', man. 
By her hispired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
The hirelings ran — her foes gied chase, 

Ajid bunged the despot weel, man. 

Let Britain boast her hardy oak. 

Her poplar and her pine, man, 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke. 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round and round. 

And soon 'twill be agreed, man, 
That sic a tree can not be found, 

'Twixt London and the Tweed, nun. 

Without this tree, alack this life 

Is but a vale o' woe man ; 
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife^ 

Nae real joys we know, man. 
We labour soon, we labour late. 

To feed the titled knave, man ; 
And a' the comfort we're to get. 

Is that ayont the grave, man. 

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow, 

The warld would live in peace, man; 
The sword would help to mak a plough. 

The dill o' war wad cease, man. 
like brethren in a common cause. 

We'd on each other smile, man; 
Anil equal rights and equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the Iooh wha wadna caS 
Sic wnalesorae, dainty cheer, man; 

I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet, 
l'> taste SIC fruit, I swear, man. 



Syne let us pray, anld England m?.y 
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; 

And biythe we'd sing, and hail the day 
That gave us liberty, man. 



Cn ^rnrral JDiimnitrirr. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (273J 

You're welcome to Despots, Duraonriei ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. 
How does Dampicre do ? 
Ay and Bonrnoiiville too? 
Why did they not come along with yoUi 
Dumourier? 

I will tight France with you, Dumourier; 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier 
1 will tight France with you ; 
I will take my chance with you ; 
By my soul I'll dauce a dance with jon, 
Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us tight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be damu'd, no doubt — Dumouner 



f inrs 

SENT TO A OEMTLKMAN WUOM UE HAD OFFENDED, 

(274) 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. 
The fumes of wine infuriate send 

(Not moony madness more astray) — ■ 
Who but deplores that hapless friend? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 

Ah, why should I such scenes outlive !— 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
' Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



3Knnii!iii 

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. (275) 

How cold is that bosom which folly ones 

fir'd. 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge 

lately glisten'd : [tired. 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 

How dull is that ear which to flattery so 

listeu'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From friendship and dearest affectioK 
remov'd ; 

How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, [lov'd. 
Thou diedst unwept, &a thou lived'st ub> 







I'JO 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Loves graces, and virtues, I call nit on you ! 
fcso shy, grave, and distKut, ye ilied uot a 
tear : 
But ci.vr.p, all yo offsprino^ of folly so true, 
And llowers let us cull for Eliza's cold 
bier. 

We'll sparch through the garden for each 

silly (lower, [weed; 

We'll roaia through the forest for each idle 

But chieily the nettle, so typical, shower, 

f'or none e'er approached her but rued 

the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure 

the lay ; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen iudignatiou shall dart ou her 

prey, 
Wliich spurning contempt shall redeem 

from his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insidting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



i^hik fram (fJ^npiis tn Blaria. 

(276) 

Prom those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where hifaniy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. 
And (leal from iron hands the spare repast. 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin. 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 
Ilesulve to drink, uay, half to whore no 

more : 
"Viliere tiny thieves not deatin'd yet to swing. 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 
From tlicae dire scenes my wretched lines 

I date. 
To tell .Maria her Egopus' fate. 

* Alas! I feel I am no actor here !" 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

A\ ill lurn thy very rouge to deadly pale; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy 

poil'd. 
By barber woven, and by barber sold, 
Tliougii twisted smooth with Harry's nicest 

care, 
Lilve hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
'riie hero of the mimic scene, no morev 
X start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; 



Or hauirhty chieftain, mid the din of arms, 
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 
While sans culottes stoop up the mountaic 

high, 
And steal from me Maria's- eye. 
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest 

dress. 
Now prouder still, 'IMaria's temples press, 
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar. 
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; 
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons (277), 
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 
The crafty colonel (278) leaves the tai'taueJ 

lines 
For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 
The tiopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 
Wlio owns a Bushby's heart without the head. 
Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display. 
That ve7ii, vidi, vici, is his way ; 
The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich 

hulks ; [state 

Though there, his heresies in church and 
Might well award hira iluir andPaluier's fate: 
Still she undaunted reel? and rattles on. 
And dares the public like a noontide sun. 
(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger. 
The ticket reeling of a crooked swagger ; 
Whose spleen e'tu worse than Burn's venom, 

when 
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen. 
And pours his vengeance in the burning line^ 
Who cliristen'd thus ^laria's lyre divine, 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 
And even tli' abuse of poesy abused : 
Who call'd her verse a parish Workhouse, 

made [stray'd ?) 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or 

A Workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my 

woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep. 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of 

yore. 
And vermin'd Gipsies litter'd heretofore. 
Why Lonsdale thus, tby vnrath ou vagranti 

pour; 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee 

worse ; 
The vices also, must they club their curse P 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 
Because thy gudt's supreme enough for all f 

Maria, send me too thy griefs; and caras; 
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares^ 




,r,iiiHiiiiii!iii!!ii!!iiiiiiiiiHiniiiiniiiiiniii 

•Vvj 



"^1^ r-^L^ 




THE VOWELS. 



191 



A.S thou at aTI mnnVind the flaj unfurls, 
VVlio on my fair one satire's veiijjeaiice hurls ? 
VA'lin calls tliee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due, 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 
Our f )rce united on thy foes we'll turn 
Anil dare tlie war with all of woman born; 
For wiio can write and speak as thou and I? 
My pprio<ls that decyphering defy, 
Aud thy still matchless tongue that conquers 
ail reply. 



#nnnpt, 

CN THE DEATH OF CAPTATN RIDDEL OF 
GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794 (2/9) 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more! 

Nor pour your descant, grating-, on my 

soul : [dant stole, 

Tliou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's 

wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 

dyes ? [friend ! 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb 

^here Riddel lies I 

Tea, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: 
The jMau of Worth, who has not left his 
peer. 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet. 
Me, laeiaVy of ray loss will only meet. 



Siiiprnmptii 

ON MRS riddel's BIRTH-DAY. (280) 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer prcferr'd — 
" What have T done of all the year. 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know; 
Niicht's horrid car drags, dreary slow; 
J.Iy dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say. 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That lirilliant gift shall so enrich me, 

Spring, suuiiuer. autumn, cannot mat ;h me.' 



" 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so tmds my stc ry. 
And Winter once rejoic'd inglory. 



OF FINTRY. (281) 

Here, where the Scottish uvase immortaJ 
lives, [joiu'd, 

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
Accept the gift; — tho' humble he v.'ho gives. 

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or love ecstatic wake his sera;^)h song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

Wliile conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And h-aveu-born piety her sanction seals. 



f IlE ^Tnttrtlf, 



thona 



18 



'TwAS where the birch and sounding 

are plied. 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 
Where ignorance her dark'niiig vapouj 

throws. 
And cruelty directs the thick'ning blows; 
Upon a time. Sir A-be-ce the great. 
In all his pedagogic powers elate. 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wigh*^ 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sigiit ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, aj/ 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face ' 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ; 
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrL-ldiphthongseancomponml; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch as;*ign'd 

The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded, Y P 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cujgel round, 
Aiid knock'd the groaning vowel to the 
ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; 



192 



BURNS' S POETICAL WOEKS, 



Til' Inqiiisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Misht ;heie have leariit new mysteries of 

his art ; 
So glim, deforra'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and bvQther scarcely 

knew ! 
As treml)liiio: U stood staring ill ao:hast. 
The pedant m his left hand chvtch'd him fast. 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'il hiui eu, and kick'd lum from bis 

sii^'ht. 



Slrrsrs in Snljii f\ankiiif, 

Ane day, as Death, that gnisome carle. 
Was drivini; to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-niaxtie, motley sqnad. 
And raony a giiilt-bespotted lad ; 
Bkick gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter. 
To liim tliat wintles in a halter : 
Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches. 
He mutters, glowiin' at the bitches, 
"By G — , I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'raang the sp'ritual core present them, 
AVithout, at least, ane honest man. 
To grace this d— d infernal clan." 
By Adamliill a glance he threw, 
" L — God !" quoth he, "I have it now. 
There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
And quickly ftoppit Kaukiue'r breath. 



^VL frnsilillltii. 

PO Wt DFAR AND MUCH nONOUSKD VBIXKB, 
MKS. nUNLOP, OP DUNLOP. 

Sen7ibility how charming, 

Ihon, my friend, canst truly tell: 

But distress with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well I 

Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the bhist sweep o'er the valley. 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest. 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. 

To eacli puate of the skies. 

Daarly bought, the hidden treasure. 

Finer feelings can bestow; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasrate. 

Thrill the deopest notes of woe. 



51Jt!rrr53 

SPOKEN BY MlSg FONTKNEI.T.E ON HER BF.NEFH 

NIGHT (282). 

Still anxious to secure yonr partial favour. 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than 

ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said 1, if nothing 

better ; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him 1 came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever 

printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes, [times : 

" I know your bent — these are no laughing 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my 

fears — 
Dissolve in sighs — and sentimental tears. 
With laden breath, and solemn-rounded 

sentence, [Repentance ; 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear liim o'er a guilty 

laud?" 

I could no more — askance the creature 

eyeing, [crying ? 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made *'ot 

I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the woi Id 

shall know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ' 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my tix'd belief. 
That Jlisery's another word for Giief ; 
1 also think — so may 1 be s. bride !— 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sig^i, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three; guineas do tlie work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam 

witch ! — 
Say, you'll be merry, the' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast 

strove; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope— 

thy neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep^ 
Peerest to meditate the liealing leap: 
Would'st thou be cur'd.thoii silly, moping eV! 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specilia 
To sum up all, be merry, I ad\ise; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 




THE ELECTION. 



I9S 



(tu Cljlnm. (283) 

Trs Friendship's pledge, my youriE^, fair 
Nor thou the gift refuse, [friend. 

Nor witli unwilUng ear attend 
The moralising muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms. 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To joiu the friendly few. 

Since thy gay mom of life o'ercast. 
Chill came the tempest's lower; 

(And ne'er misfortune s eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer llower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more. 

Still much is left behuid; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— 

The comforts of the mind! 

Thine is the self-approving glow. 

On conscious honour's part; 
And, dearest gift of heaven beloir, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste^ 

\A'ith every muse to rove: 
And doubly were the poet blest. 

These joys could he improye. 



Ihtes In lIjB cfliaiJE nf QJIjiinisnn, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 
ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin spring, by Eden's flood. 
Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
Or tunes Eohan strains between: 

While Summer ■nith a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Tet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade: 

Wliile Autumn, benefactor kind. 
By Tweed erects his aged head. 

And sees, with self-apprnving mind. 
Each creatm-e on liis bounty fed: 

VVTiile maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: 

Bo long, sweet Poet af the year! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



[ballad first] (28-1.) 
W iiOM will you send to London towi^ 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the ojuntry round 
The best deserves to fa' that? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ; 
Wiiere is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that? 
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yeti. 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met 
And has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent patriot. 
The honest man, and a' that; 
Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mil, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man Tor a' that. 
But why should we to nobles joukP 

And is't against the law that? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
A beardless boy comes o'er the hilli^ 

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang ourseli» 
A man we ken, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
For we're not to be bought and aoi.j 
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that. 
Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that, 
O'lr representative to be. 
For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A House of Commons such as h^ 
They would be blest that saw that 



[ballad SECOND.] 

f IjE (lElrrtinn. 

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickerin' there; 

For Mm-raj 's light-horse are to muster. 
And oh, how the bexoes will sweai 1 



194 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And there will be JTurray commander, 
And Gordon the battle to win ; 

Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 
Sae knit in alliance au' sin. 

And there will be blacklippit Johnnie (285), 

The tongue o' the trump to them a'; 
An' he get na hell for his haddin'. 

The deil gets na justice ava'; 
And there will be Kenipleton's birkie^ 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
B,it, as for his line nabob fortune, 

AVe'il e'en let the subject alaue. (286) 

And there will be Wigton's new sheriff; 

Daiae Justice fu' brawlie has sped. 
She's gotten the heart of a Busby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head? 
And tliere will be Cardoness (287,1, Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation. 

For the devil the prey will despise. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), 

New christ'ning towns far and near; 
Abjurnig their democrat doings. 

By kissaig the — o' a peer ; 
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous. 

Whose honour is proof to the storm. 
To save them from stark reprobation. 

He lent tiieu his name to the tirm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body, e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siiler. 

All' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his giatefu' return? 
The billie is gettiu' his questions. 

To say iu St. Stephen's the mom. 

And there will be lads o' the gospel, 

lluirhead wha's as guid as he's true: 
And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue; 
And there will be folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note. 
The deil ane but honours them highly — 

The deil ane will gie them his vote ! 

And there will bo wealthy young E,ichard, 

Dame fortune should hiiig by the neck ; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 

His nwrit had won him respect : 
And there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Ti o' nabobs yet men of the tirst, 
Aiiii there will be Colheston's whiskers. 

And Uuintin, o' lads not the warst. 

And there will be stamp-office Johnnie, 
'I'ak lent how ye purchase a dram; [(289) 

Au<( there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
And there will be gleg (Jolouel Tarn; 



And there will be tn.sty Kerroughtree^ 
Whose honour was ever his law. 

If the virtues were packed in a parcel. 
His worth might be sample for a'. 

And can we forget the auld major, 

^\'ha'll ne'er be forgot m the Greys, 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other. 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's gui<i knight. 
And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 

And there frae the Niddesdale borders, 

\^^ill mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Walit 

That griens for the fishes and loaves; 
And there will be Logan Mac Douall, 

Sculdudd'ry and he will be there. 
And also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balraaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king; 
And hey for the sanctified Murray, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; 
He fouiider'd his horse among harlots. 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



[ballad third.] 

la dpirrllittt jflfoi Inng, 

TuNK — Buy broom besoms, 

Wha will buy my troggin (290), 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee; 
Who wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame and high renown (291), 
For an auld sang — 

It's thought the gudes were strown 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's the worth o' Broughton (292), 

In a needle's ee : 
Here's a reputation 

T'int by Balmaghie. (293) 

Buy braw troggin, .Ac. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' I'mwald — 

iso was never worn. (204) 

Buy braw troggin, Su. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD. 



Ids 



Here its stuflF and lining, 

Cardoness's head; 
Fkie for a sodger 

A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy biaw trojgin, &c. 

Here's a little wadset 
Buittle's scrap o' truth, 

Pawn'd in a gin sliop 
(iueuchiujc holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &e. 

Here's armorial bearings, 
Frae the manse o' Urr; 

The crest, an auld crab-apple (295) 
Kottcu at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Satan's picture. 

Like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Kedcastle 

Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &S. 

Here's the worth and wisdom 

Collieston can boast ; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggiu, &c 

Here is Murray's fragments 

O' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, &C, 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye're slack, 
Horuie's turain' chapman— 
He'll buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let lum come to me. 



^n XlfF, 

AUDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTEP. 

(296) DUMi'-uiES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in tiie poet's weal : 
Ah ! now sma' lieart hae I to speel 

Tlie steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

Oh what a canty warld were it. 

Would pain and care and sickness spare it; 

And tortuiw favour worth and merit. 

As they deserve ! 
(And aye a rowth roast beef and claret ; 

Syue wha wad starve ?) 



Dame Life, tho' fiction out may tric't her. 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and uusicker 

I've found her still 
Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, 

'Tvveeu good and ill. 
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satai^ 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our smfu' saul to get a claut ou 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! liis tail ye'll ne'er cast Mut ofc-^ 

He's atf like lire. 

Auld Nick ! auld Nick ! it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bounie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy s|)ider snare 

O' hell's dumu'd waft. 
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damu'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure j 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Tliy sicker treasure ! 

Soon heel's-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs. 
And like a skeep-head ou a tangs. 
Thy giruing laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle. 
As, dangling in the wnid, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 
But lest you think I am uncivil, 
To plague you with this drauuting drive^ 
Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us a' frae the devil I 

Ameu ! Amen ! 



Sitsiriptiuii 

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCB. (297) 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Powers proudest frown to b-ravo^ 

AA' ho wilt not be, nor iiave a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 

Approach this shrine, and worship her^ 



(Da IjjB DratI; nf a /ainnriti! Cjiili. 

(298) 

Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of tha 
My dear little angel, forever; [graven 

For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slav^ 
Ills hopes from existence to sever. 
8* 






196 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOR"KS. 



Though cold belne clay where thou pUlow'st 
thy liead, 
In the dark silent mansions of sorrow. 
The spring shall reluru to thy law narrow 
bed, 
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 

The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet 
seraph form. 
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
Yfhen thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the 
loud winter storm. 
And nestled thee close to that bosom 

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death. 
Reclined on the lap of thy mother ; 

When the tear trickled bright, when the 
short stifled breath. 
Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou art gone to the home of 
thy rest, 
Where sullering no longer can harm ye. 
Where the songs of the good, where the 
hymns of the blest. 
Through an endless existence shall charm 
thee. 

Wliile he, thy fond parent, must sighing 
sojourn. 
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow. 
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to 
mourn. 
And sigh for this life's latest morrow. 



tn Mu ^liiljirll, 

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, IIUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alack ! alack ! the nieikle diel 

VVi' ii' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches I 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 
That one pound one, I sairly want it j 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. 

It would be kind ; 
&jid while my heart wi' lif-blood daunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Pol lestic peace and comforts crowniog 

The hale design. 



POSTCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've heen Lcke^ 
And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loau ! he got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turii'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a shore o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't 
My hale aiwl weel, I'll tak a care o't, 

A ten tier way; 
Then farewell folly, hide and Imir o't^ 

For aiice and aye 1 



f jli; fxiiml Baiil's f anrent. 

Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love. 

Oh sairly do I rue. 
That e'er i heard your flattering tongufl^ 

That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh, I hae tent my rosy cheeks. 
Likewise my waist sae sma' ; 

And I hae lost my lightsome heart, 
That little wist a fa'. 

Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer 

O' monjPa saucy quean ; 
When, gin the truth were a' but keat. 

Her ht'e's been warse than mine. 

Whene'er my father thinks on m^ 

He stares into the wa' ; 
My mitlier, slie has taen the bed 

Wi' thinking on my fa'. 

Whene'er I hear my father's foot. 
My heart wad burst wi' pain; 

Whene'er I meet my mither's ee^ 
My tears rin down like raiu, 

Alas ! sae sweet a tree as love 
Sic bitter fruit should bearl 

Alas ! that e'er a bonuie face 
Should draw a sauty tear ! 



CflD I3ran nf tif? /arnltq. 

A NEW BALLAD. (299) 

Dire was the hate at old Ilarlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord l^angside saw. 

For beauteous hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 

Or were more in fury seen. Sir, fjob— 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for tho famoui 

Who should be Faculty's Ueau, Sir. 



ON MR. M'MUEDO. 



19J 



This Hal for genus, wit and lore. 

Among this tirst was number'd ; 
But pious Boll, 'mid leariiii;u:'s store. 

Commandment ten remember'd. 
Yet siniple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire : 
Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot. 

Though the devil's in tlic lire. 

Squiie Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy. 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the " Faculty* 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness. 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see. 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's moutli may be opeti'd yet 

Till for eloquence you hail him. 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



mm 

ON THX BESTRUrTION OF THE 'WOODS NEAR 
DRUMLANRIO. (300) 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed, 
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs. 

Where linties sang and lambkins play'd, 
'' sat me down upon a craig. 

And drank my till o' foacy's dream, 
Wien, from the eddying deep below. 

Uprose the genma of the stream. 
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. 

And troubled, like iiis wintry wave. 
And deep, as sighs the bodingwind 

Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave — 
" And came ye here, my son," he cried, 

"To wander in my birken shade? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme. 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 
"There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

Ye might hae seen me in my pride. 
When a' my banks sae bravely sa.v 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool ; 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the pool ! 
** Wach glinting, through the trees, appeared 

Ti\e wee white cot aboon the mill. 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek. 

That sltfwly curled up the hilL 



But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gaua^ 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast is lane." 
"Alas! " said I, " what ruefu' chance 

Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees P 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 

Has stripp'd the deeding o' your braes f 
Was it the bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters blight in early spring? 
Or was't the wil'tire scorched then- bought 

Or canker-worm wi' secret stuig ? " 
"Nae eastUn blast," the sprite replied; 

" It blew na here sae fierce and fell. 
And on my dry and whalesome banks 

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
Man ! cruel man ! " the genius sigh'd — 

As through the cliffs he sank him dovvn— 
"The worm that gnav/'d my bonnie trees. 
That reptile wears a ducal crowu." 



<^n lilt liiih Df (Jiiirrnciliiini. (soi) 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace- 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story' 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted— 
The very name of Douglas Jjlasted— 

His that inverted glory. 
Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt; 
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name. 
But, Uueeusberry, thine the virgin claim. 

From ought that's good exempt. 



Vnm in fnljii m'JiUuh, £511. 

[m'ith a present op books.] (302.) 
Oh, could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this trifle send. 
Because thy joy in both woiild be 

To share them with a frieiul. 
But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy— 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



^n Hr. B'jllitrh. 

INSCRIBED ON A PANE OP GLASS Ih 
HIS HOUSE. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evennig ray; 
No wrinkle furrowed by thp hand of'^care. 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain. 
Nor ever dau^diter give the mother paiuJ 








198 



BUENS'S POETICAL ■WORKS. 



Sraprmnpin nn tl'lllit ?trmarf, (303) 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
You're wck'ouie, Wiliie Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 
That's half sae welcome's thou art. 
Come, bumpers hij;h, express your joy. 

The bowl we maun renew it; 
The tappit-hen sae bring her ben. 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 
May foes be stran?:, and friends be slacJk, 

Ilk action may lie rue it; 
May woman on him turn her back. 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart, 



ffn Bliss ^rsnti ITrninrs, 

I_WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS.] 

Thine be the volunies, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer — 
That Fate may in her fairest page. 
With ev'ry kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame,. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward; 
go prays thy faitiilul friend the Bard. 



%M\^, % IjsF surs 111? Dai]. (304) 

Tune — Invercauld's Reel. 
Oh Tibbie, I hie seen the day 

Ye wad na been sae shy; 
For lack o' gear ye slighted me. 
But, trowtli, I care ua by. 
Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 

But lient a hair care I. 
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 
Because ye liae the name o'cliiik. 
That ye can please me at a wink, 

Whene'er ye like to try. 
But sorrow tak hira that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean. 

That looks sae proud and high. 
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head another airt. 

And answer him fu' dry. 
But if he hae the n!\me o' gear, 
Ye'U fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 

Be better than the kye. 



But, Tibbie, lass, tak ray advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nioej 
The deil a ane wad spier your price. 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; 
Ye need ua look sae high. 



31Iuntgnnirrif5 ^^rgp. (305) 

Tune — Oalla-lVater. 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir 

Amang the heather, in my plaidi^ 
Yet happy, hapjiy would I be. 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

WTien o'er the hill beat surly storms. 
And winter nights were dark and rainy j 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready. 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 

The shann't with Montgomery's Fcggy, 



Sannij flrggn aiisnn. (306) 

Tune — Braes o' Balquhidder. 

CHORUS, 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 

And I'll kiss tiiee o'er again; 

And I'll kiss thee, yet, yet. 
My bonnie Peggy Alison; 

nk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as 1 am, O ! 

Wlien in my arms, wi' a' thy chann^ 
I clasp my countless treasure, O, 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O I 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O I 

And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never, O I 



Urn's In llji; Uraltlj. m\] SJnnni; f 055, 

Tune — Laggan Burn. 
Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Gnid night, and joy be wi' tbee; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door. 

To tell thee that I loe thee ; 



iuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiin 



JOHN BAELEYCORN. 



199 



Oil ilinna tliinlf, my pretty pink, 

But; I can live without tliee : 
I vow and swear I diiina care 

How lang ye look about ye. 

riiou'rt aye sae free informing^ me 
Thou hast nae mind to marry; 

I'll he as free niformiiig thee 
Nae time hae I to tarry. 

I ken thy friends try ilka means, 
Frae wedlock to delay thee; 

Dependiu? on BDine hi'jher chance- 
But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never |:;rieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it : 
rU fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far off fowls hae feathers fair. 

And aye until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care. 

They may prove worse than I am. 
Sut at twilit night, when the mocn shines 

bright, 
My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that Iocs his mistress wed, 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



Tune — Last time I came o'er the Mui' 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass. 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshnie the radiant beams 

Tliat gild the passmg shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them ; 
They chirm th' admiring gamer's sight. 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is, as the evening mild, 

Wiien feather'd tribes are courting'. 
And Uttle lambkins wtnton wild. 

In playful binds disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 
Such sweetness would relent her 

As blooming spring unbends the biviw 
Of surly, savage winter. 



Detraction's eye no aiic can gaiii. 

Her winning powers to lessen; 
And fretful envy grins in vaia 

The poisoa'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of honour, love and tnitl^ 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth. 

The destinies intend her : 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom. 
And bless t'ne dear parental name 

With many a tilial blossom. 



Mjn Sarlrijrnni. 

A BALLAD. (308) 

There were three kings into the east. 
Three kings both great and high ; 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

Tliey took a plough and plough'd him Jowi^ 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on 

And show'rs be:^-an to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surpiis'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong ; 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. 
That ao one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fad. 

His colour sicken'd more and more. 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've taen a weapon, long and shai> 

And cut him by the knee ! 
Tliey tied him fast upon a cart, 

like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storaat 

Aud turu'd hiin o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim ; 
They heaved in John Barleyoora, 

There let him &iuk or swuu. 



200 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him farther woe ; 
And still, as signs of life appear'd. 

They toss'd liim to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all. 

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones. 

And they hae taen his very heart's blood. 
And drunk it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they dranlc. 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old iScotlaud 1 



^{te fxigs n* ©arlni. (309) 

Tune — Com Rigs are honnie. 

It was upon a Lammas night. 

When corn rigs are boiiiiie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I hefc awa to Anaie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed. 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me thro' the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down wi' right good will 

Amaiig the rigs o' barley ; 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre agait, 

Amaug the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amaiig the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright. 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall blesi that happy night, 

Amtnij^ tkrc rigs o' barley. 



I hae been blythe wi' comrades dearj 

I hae been merry driukiu' ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 

I hae been hajjpy thinkiu' ; 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly. 
That happy night was worth them •*« 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Com risrs, and barley rigs. 
And corn rigs are bonnie • 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night 
Amang the rigs wi' Aiiuie. 



t^i ^31nitgliman» 

Tune — Up wi' the Ploughman. 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad. 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee. 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' my ploughman lad. 

And hey ray merry pliniglunaal 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hame at t'en. 

He's aften wat and weary ; 
Cast off' the wat, put on the dry. 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

I will wash my ploughman's hose^ 
And I will dress his o'erlay ; 

I will mak my ploughman's bed. 
And cheer him late and early. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Samt Johnston ; 
I The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancin\ 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs. 
And siller buckles glancin' ; 

A guid blue bonnet on his hea*) — 
And oh, but he was handsome I 

Commend me to the barn-yard. 
And at the corn-mou, man ; 

I never gat my coggie fou, 
Till I meet wi' the ploughman. 



Inng innipsjti in Sngitst. vSio) 

Tune — / had a horse, 1 had nne mair. 

Now westling winds and slauglit'ring gUJU 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 

The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 
Amang the bloonii/ig heather : 




Mt NANNIE, a 



201 



Now wflvins: frrain, wide o'er the plain, 
Delights the weary fanner ; [night 

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 
To muse upon my charmei ■. 

The partridge loves the frnitl'ul fell*; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woDilcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains ; 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves. 

The path of man to shun it ; 
Tlie hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'/y kind their pleasure find, 

I'he savage aud the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine : 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry. 

The flutt'ring gory pinion. 

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear. 

Thick flies the skimmnig swallow ; 
Tlie sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading-green and yellow; 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

Aud every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not verual show'rs to budding flovr'n^ 

Not autumn to the fanner. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely charmer I 



fun Wi^t ainssi} Bmiiitinns. (^ii) 

Tune — Yon wild mossy fountains. 

ON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and 

wide, [Clyde, 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 
ou his reed. 
Wlic-re the grouse lead then- coveys thro' 

the heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he 
pipes on his reed. 

Not Cowrie's rich vallics, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' you wild, mossy 

moors : 



For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. [stream. 

For there, by a lanely and sequester'd 

Besides a sweet lassie, my thought aud 

my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be mj 

path, [strath : 

'Ek stream foaming down its ain green narrow 

For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 

While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 

love. [rove. 

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I 

While o'er us unheeded flee the swift houit 

o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 

O' nice education but sma, is her share ; 

Iler parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I loe the dear lassie because she Iocs me. 
Her parentage humble as humble can be : 
But 1 loe the dear lassie because she loea 
me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize, [sighs ! 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

And when wit and re&nement hae pohsh'd 

her darts. 

They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 

And when wit and reliuement hae polish'd 

her darts, [hearts. 

They dazzle our een, as they flee to our 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond 

sparkling e'e. 
Has lu<rtre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp 'd in 

her arms, [charms J 

Oh, these, are my lassie's all-conquering 

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'U 

in her arms. 
Oh, these are my lassie's all-cou^uericg 

charms 1 



Tune — My Nannie, 0. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'iMang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
Aud I'U awa to Nannie, 0. 

The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But rU get my plaid, and out I'll sted, 

Aud owre tlie lulls to Nannie, O. 





202 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My Nannie's charrainjf, sweet, and young 

Nae arifu' wits to win ye, O : 
May ill beta' tlie flatcevin;^ tonj;ue 

Tli.it wad beguile lay Nannie, O. 
Her face is fair, lier heart is true. 

As spotless as sliu's boniiie, O: 
Th,^ op'niii;^ g'owan, wet wi dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my decree. 

And few there be that ken me, G| 

But what care 1 how few they be? 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 

My riches a's ray penny-fee. 

And I maun guide it caimie, O; 

But warl's j;'car ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep aud kye thrive bonnie, O; 

But I'm as blythe that bauds Ins plough. 
And has nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care nae by, 
I'll tak what IJeav'n will sen' m3, O; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, aud love my Nannie, O. 



,-^' TUHB — Green grow the Rashet, 

CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O ' 
Green grow the rashes, O! 

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are sjjent amaiig the lasses, O. 
There's nought but care on ev'ry haii'^ 

in every hour that passes, O : 
What sigailies the life o' man. 

An 'twere ua for the lasses, O. 
The warily race may riches chase, 

A u'i riches still may tly them, O ; 
And tho' at last they catch them fast. 

Their Iwarts can ne'er enjoy them; O, 
But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 

jMy arms about my dearie, O ; 
And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly meo. 

May a' gae tapsaUeene, O. 
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 

Yc're nought but senseless asses, O: 
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dean 

Her noblest work she classes, O : 
Her 'prentice liaii' she tried on man, 

Aud theu she made the lasses, O. 



1[\}: Cnrs fnr all im, 

Tune — Prepare, my dear Brethren, ta thi 
2'avern lei's Jly. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write. 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to tight, 
No sly man of busuicss contriving a snare — • 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my 
care. 

The peer I don't envy, I sjive him his bcgv ; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that 

are here. 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — liia 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in tho 

air ! 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of ray bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation, to church I did dy ; 
1 found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-belhed bottle's a cui'e for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
.A. letter infurm'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

"Life's cares they are comfortb" (314) — a 

maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call liim, that wore 

the black gown ; [hair ; 

And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Tlien fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
Aud honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 
square [cave ! 

Have a big-beUied bottle when harass'd with 



(Dn Crsinnrk Saiiks, 

Tone — If he be a Butcher neat and trint. 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could 1 describe her shape and mien; 

The graces of her weel-faur'd face, 
Aud the glaucin' of her sparklm' een ! 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising I'hujbus tirst is seen. 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
Aud she's twa glauciu' sparLIiu' een. 








FEOM THEE, ELIZA. 



203 



BIjr's stately \'\ke yon youthful ash, 
Tluit f^rows the cowslip braes between. 

And slioots its he.id above eiicli bush ; 
Aud she's twa glaucm' sparklin' eea. 

Bhe's spotless as the flowVin!; thorn. 

With flow'rs so white, and leaves so ^een, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
Aud she's twa glauciu' sparklin' een. 

Her lojks are like the sportive lamb 
When How'ry .May adorns the scene. 

That wantons ronnd its bleating: dam; 
And she's twa glancia' sparklin eea. 

Ilcr hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the monntaia-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-revivni;; rains are past ; 
And she's twa glauciu' sparklm' een. 

H?.r forehead's like the show'ry bow. 
When shiniii;"; sunbeams intervene, 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
And she's twa glauciu' sparklin' een. 

Her voice is like the eveninof thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen. 

While his mate sits nestling in t!ie bush; 
Aud she's twa glauciu' sparkliu' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen — 

They tempt the taste aud charm the sight; 
Aud she's twa glaucin' sparkliu' een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. 
With llecces newly washen clean. 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
Aud she's twa glunciu' sparkliu' ecu. 

Her breath is like the fraprrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean. 

When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; 
And she's twa glauciu' sparklin' een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's tabled queen. 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
And chiefly in her sparklin' eea. 



Tune — The Beiiks dang o'er my Daddy! 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair. 

Shall ever be my muse's care : 

Their titles a' are empty show : 

Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within tiie glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboou the plains sae rushy, O, 
I sec me down wi' right good will. 
To sing my highland lassie, O. 



Oh, were yon hills and vallics mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens tine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my highland lassie, O. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
1 know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's gkw. 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 

For her Fll dare the billows' roar. 
For her Fll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's baud I 
'I'ill the mortal stroke shall lay me low 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, Ol 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing my highland lassie, O. 



I^nrarrs (I^rlrstijl. 

Tune — Blue Bonnets. 
Powers celestial ! whose protectioD 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
"While in distant climes I wander. 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sac fair and faultless^ 

Fair and faultless as your own. 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast. 
Breathing in the breeze tha't fans her. 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angel I oh protect; her. 

When in distant lauds I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles laq 

Make her bosom still my home. 



/mm iljrp, (Blip. . 

Tune — Gilderoy, or Donald. 

From thee, Eliza, 1 must go. 
And from my native shore. 

The cruel Fates between us tlirow 
A bouudltss ocean's roar • 



19 




IHIIllIllllllllllllHIIlHIIIIIIIIII 



iimlllllllllllllllllillllllllHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII. 




204 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



But boundless oceans roaring wide. 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and sold from the^ 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part co meet no more ! 
The latest throb that leaves my heart. 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 

And thine that latest sigh 1 



Mmt. 

Tone — Johnny's grey Breelct. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
And maun [ still on Menie doat 

And bear the scorn that's in her ee? 
For it's jet. jet black, and like a hawk, 
And wiuna let a body be. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The maws and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the dncklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims. 
And everything is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap. 
And owre the moorland whistles shrill; 

W^i' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet liim on the dewy hdl. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
And raging bend the naked tree : 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



fflji; /armirll. 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JA.HE.s's LCOOB^ 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune — Good-night, and joy be wi' yiu 0*1 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu I 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie 1 
Ye favour'd, ye eidighten'd few, 

Companions of ray social joy; 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Fortune's slip|i.'ry ba', 
With melting heart and brimful eya^ 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

Oft have I met yonr social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive night . 
Oft honour'd with supreme command. 

Presided o'er the sons of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa.' 

May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you in the'g'rand design. 
Beneath th' Omniscient eye above. 

The glorious Architect divine 1 
Tliat you may keep th' unerring line, 

Stdl rising by the plummet's law. 
Till order bright completely shine. 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim. 
Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 

Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name 
To masonry and Scotia dear; 

A last request permit me here, 
Wlien yearly ye assemble a', 

One round — I ask it with a tear- 
To him, the Bard that's far awa*. 



/ 



tfJIjE iSrnrs n' SallDrlininlu. (316; 

Tune — The Braes o' Ballochnyle. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decay'd on Catriae lea, 
Nae lav' rock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Herscl in beauty's bloom the while. 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Eareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'U flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But, here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile ; 
Fareweel the lionnie banks of Ayr, 

f areweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



THE BIRES OF ABEEFELDY. 



203 



fflr? fans n* SalmrljinijlB. (3i7) 

Tune — Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff. 
"TwAS even — the dew; fields were green. 

On every blade the pearlies hang, 
Tlie zephyr wanton'd round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alaug : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, 

All nature lisc'uiug seem'd the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Witli careless step I onward stray' J, 

My heart rej(jiccd in nature's joy, 
Wlien, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection wliispct'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wik] : 
But woman, nature's darhng child ! 

There all her charms she does compile; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
rho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonuie lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

riien pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

AVhere fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks, or tdl the soil. 
And ev'ry day ha\ e joys divine 

With the bounie lass o' Ballochmjie. 



(Tjit ^Innintj Higljt is (Sjatfirring /ast. 

(318) 
Tune — RosUn Castle. 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 
"i on murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hi. liter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
AVIiile here I wander, prest with ctm. 
Along tlie lonely banks of Ayr. 



The autumn mourns her rip'ning com. 

By early winter's ravage torn ; 

Across her placid, azure sky. 

She sees the scowling tempest fly : 

Chill runs my blood to hear it rave— 

I think upon the stormy wave, 

^^■here many a danger I must dare. 

Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr 

'Tis not the surging billow's rofur, 

'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 

Tho' death in every shape appear, 

Tlie wretched have no more to fear ! 

But round my heart the ties are bound. 

That heart transpierc'd with many a wound, 

These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 

To leave the bonny banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales. 

Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 

The scenes \\here wretched fancy roves. 

Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 

Farewell, my friends ! farewell, mv foes • 

My peace with these, my love with those— 

The bursting tears my heart declare; 

Farewell the bounie banks of Ayr ! 



^^ 



Sanks n' Wann. (3i9) 

Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
How can ye chant, ye httle birds, 

Aiid I sae weary fu' o' care ? 
Thou'lt break ray heart, thou warbling bird. 

That wanton'st thro' the flowering thorn.} 
Tliou minds'st me o' departed joyi^ 

Departed — never to return ! 

Aft liae I roved by bonnie Boon, 

To see the the rose and woodbine twine; 
And ilka .bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fuse luver stole my rose. 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



f {jp %\xh nf !3lirrfrl!ri|. (320) 

Tune— r/te Birks of Abergeldy. 

CHORUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 
To the birks of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowTy braes. 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; 
Come, let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



206 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tlie little birdies blythely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
Or liL^htiy flit on wanton wing 

III the bilks of Aberfeliiy. 
Tlie braes ascend, like lofty wa's, 
Tlie foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erliuiis; wi' fraurant spreading shaws. 

The bilks of Aberfeldy. 
The hoary clilTs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
AA'hite o'er the linns tlie buriiie ponrs. 
And rising, weets wi' misty showen 

The bilks of Aberfeldy. 
Let tortnne's gifts at random flee, 
They iieer shall draw a wish frae mo 
Supremely blest wi' love and tiiee, 

III the bilks of Aberfeldy. 



S'm nuire f^nnng hi 3}Iarn| ^i^rt. 

Tune — I'm owre young to marry yet, 

1 AM my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir; 
And if I gang to your house, 

I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie. Sir. 

I'm owre young to marry yet • 
I'm owre young to marry yet; 

I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
To take me frae my mammy yet, 

Hallowmas Is come and gane, 

The nights are lang in winter. Sir; 

And you and I in wedlock's bands. 
In troth, I dare not venture. Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Ff.' loud and shrill the frosty wind 

Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir ; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer. Sir, 
Fib owre youug, &c. 



T)l'^nm'5 /arrracll. (321) 

Tune — HrPherson's Rant. 

Fakewell, ye dungeons dark and strong. 

The wretch's destinie : 
Mai'phcrson's time will not be long 
Oil yonder gallows-tree. 

Sae rantiiigly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntiiigly gaeil he ; 
He jilay'd a spring, and danc'd it round. 
Below the gallows-tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath V-^ 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

T wosu him yec again ; 



Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And tiiere's no man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart [ must depart. 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright 

And all beneath the sky I 
May coward shiuue distaiii his name^ 

The wretch that dares not die 1 



Mm f nng an!i IDrranj is llir Eig^ 

How long and dreary is the night 

\Mien I am frae my dearie ! 
I sleei>less lie frae e'en to mom, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 
I sleepless lie frae e'en to mora, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

Wlien I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie. 
And now what lands between us lie^ 
How can I be but eerie ! 

And now what lands between us lie^ 
How can I be but eerie 1 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary ! 
It was tia sae ye glinted by. 
Wliei' f vvas «i' my dearie. 
It vras na sae ye glinted by, 
W'hea I was wi' my dearie. 



2Jrrr*5 a SJralilj tn ijirm tljat^s hm. 

Tune — Here's a health to them that's f^w^ 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha wiiina wish guid luck to our cau»^ 

May never guid luck be their fa'l 

It's guid to be merry and wise. 

It's guid to be honest and true. 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the eiask 
Altho' that his band be sma'. 
May liberty meet wi' success ! 
May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tme i;i the zovt. 
And wander their way to the dv.vil I 



MY PEGGI S FACE. 



207 



flcre's a health to then that'a awa, 
Here's a hcahh to them tliat's awa ; [ladilie, 
Here's a health to Tamniie, the Norlaud 
Tliat lives at tlie lui; o' the law ; 
Here's freedom to hira that wad read! 
Here's freedom to hira that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard. 
But they wham the truth wad iiidite. 

Flere's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
Here's Chieftaui M'Leod, a Chieftain worth 

gow'd, 
riio' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's frienda on both sides of the Forth, 
And friends on both sides of the Tweed; 
A: d wha wad betray old Albion's rights. 
May they never eat of her bread. 



liraijjallan's tmnt (322) 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turhid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Siili surround my lonely cave! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
liusy haunts of base manknid. 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wro! is injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens denied success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
Not a hope that dare attend : 

The wide world is all before us— 
But a world without a MeudL 



^Ijf 



ffiaiilts nf the Drnnn. (323) 

Tune — Bhanneraeh dhon na chri. 



How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
L'evon, [blooming fair ! 

Wnh green spreading bnshL's, and flowers ] But 1 adore my Peggy's heart, 



Oh spare the dear hlossom, ye onent breezes. 
With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the 
dan 11 ; [seizei 

And far b: thou distant, thon reptile that 
The verdure aud pride of ihe garden and 
lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 
And England, triuiuphaut, display her 
proud Rose : 
A- fairer than either adonis the green vallies. 
Where Devon, sweet JJevou, meanderiug 
flowi. 



Sraning Mngrij t'Uiiitrfs Itnrras. {324) 

Tune — Neil Cow's Lamentation far 
Abcrcairuy. 

Where, braving angry winter's stornii, 

The lofty Ochils rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's clianna 

First blest my wouderiiig eyes ; 

As one, who by some savage streanv 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam. 

With arts most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'(J, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 

The tyrant death, with grim control, 
May seize my fleeting breath ; 

But tearing Peggy from my soul 
Must be a strougcr death. 



3Hij ^^rggij's /arj. 

Tune — My Peggy's Face. 

My Peggy's face, ray Peggy's form. 
The frost of hermit age iniglit warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the first of huuiau kmi 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair. 
Her native grace so void of art. 



Rut the bonniest flower on the banks of the 

Devon [Ayr. 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

lu the gay rosy morn, as it bathes iu the 

dew ; 

JLnd gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 

That steals ou the evening each leaf to 

renew. 

19* 



The lily''' hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye : 
Who but owns iheir magic sway! 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disarm*-^ 
Tbese are all immortal charms. 




S08 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Slaning 'Whh Hrnnni lirr ISlnraing. 

(325) 
Tune — Macgrer/or of Rnara's Lament. 
Raving winds around lier blowinjf, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing. 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring^ 
"Farewell hours that late did raea3ura 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, th.ou p:loomy night of sorrow, 
Chetiless night that knows no morrow ! 

O'er the past too fondly wandering. 
On the hopeless future pondernig; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despair my fancy seizes, 
life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing. 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
Aaid to dark oblivion join thee !" 



ffiiillilan^ ajfirrii. (326) 

My Harry was a srallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain t 
But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll ufver see him back again. 
Oh for him back again ; 

Oh for him back again ! 
I wad gie a' Knoekhaspie's land 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen : 
( )»it me down and greet my fill. 

And aye I wish him back again. 
O^ were some villians hangit high. 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
t^en I might see the joyfu' sight. 

My Higliland Harry back again. 



ffiasiitg nn tljB Inaring (^mn. (327) 

Tune — Dniimioti Dubh. 
Musing on thp roaring ocean 

Which divides my love and me; 
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. 

For liis weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law, 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pdlow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Te whom sorrow never wounded. 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Cwre-unfc'oubled, joy surrounded. 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 



Gentle night, do thou befriend ma j 
Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me. 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



illlttir HIM IIjE. (328)' 
Tune — Andro and his Cutty Ovtk 

CHSRUS. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she^ 
Blythe was she butt and ben : 

Blythe by the banks of Em, 
And blythe in Glentwrit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie vi'as a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer mom; 

She tripped by the banks o' Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sue sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 

The Highland hills Pve wander'd widl^ 
And o'er the lowlands 1 hae been; 

But Phemie was the blythest lasa 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



Hlji (IFallant tXJranwr* 

Tune — The Weaver's March, 

Wliere Cart rins rowin' to the sea. 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tre^ 
There lives a lad, the lad for me. 
He is a gaUant weaver. 

Oh, I had wooers ancht or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tin^ 
And 1 gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sig^n'd my tocher-band. 
To gie the lad that has the laud ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds re'oice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in op'ning flowers ! 
While com grows green in simaiiir shoven; 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 




iii!i;:iitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:iii;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



1/^ 




WHEN JANUAIi' WIND. 



201 



CflE Sliih-rr!! IRnsi at ^-^tilr maij %lm. 

Tune — To daunton me. 

The blude-red rose at Yxile may blaw. 
The simmer lillies bloom in siiaw, 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld. man sliall never daimtoa me. 

To dannton me, and me so youn"^, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring ton^e 
That is the tiling you ne'er shall see : 
For au old man shall never dauntoa me. 

For a' his meal and a'his maut, 
For a' his fresli beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and v.'hite mouie. 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy liim kye and yovres. 
His gear may buy him glens and kuowes; 
Uut me he shall not buy nor fee. 
For au auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, 

Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow. 

And the rain rains down from his red bicer'd 

ee — 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 



a f\m-M bn tni| iParhi Walk. (329) 

Tune — The Rose-bud. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn -enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 

All ou a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 

It scents the early morning. 

Withiuthe bush, her covert nest, 
A li'.ile linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
1 he pride, the pleasure o' tlie wood, 
Amiing the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, deer bird, yomig Jeany fair 1 
Ou trembling string or vocal air, 
ShiU sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
Bo thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Bhalt beauteous blaze iipon the day. 
And bless the parent's evenhig ray 

That watch' d thy early moruinj. 



innnip <{J:i5tIp (PnrJtnn, 

Tune — Murag. 

Streams that glide in orient plaint, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix.'d with foulest stains 

From t3Tanny'3 empurpled bands; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tjTants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that sweetly lares 

The banks by Castle-Gordou. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Sliading from the burning ray 

Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 

In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood t 
life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods waTl^ 

By bonuie Castle-Gordon. 



W^m Sannar' XVinii. (sso) 

Tune — The Lass that made the Bed to Mit 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld. 
As to the north I took my way. 

The mirksome night did me enfauld, 
I knew na where to lodge till day, 

By roy good luck a maid I met. 

Just in the middle o' my care; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And thank'd her for her courtesie, 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
Aud bade her niak a bed to me. 

She made the bed baith large aud wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it dowDf 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 
Aud drauk, " Yomig man, uow sleep jt 
Boun'." 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand. 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 

But I call'd her quickly back again 
To lay some muir below my head. 




iiiinininiiniiiiiiiiiiin;iiiiiiiii;iliiiiHiiiiliiiHi"i"i""i"i"ii":"iii""i' 



lllli;;illll«llllllllll&lllllllllillUllM"ll'ii'"^ 




310 



EURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A cod she laid below my head, 

Anil served me \vi' due respect; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put luy arms about her neck, 
" Haud atf your bauds, young man," she 
says, 

"And dinna sae uncivil be: 
If ye hae ony love for me, 

Oh wrang na my virginitie I" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again. 

And aye she wist na what to say ; 
[ laid her 'tween me and the wa' — 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 
Upon the morrow when we rose, 

1 thank'd h." for her courtesie ; 
But aye sh- ohish'd, and aye she sigVd, 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

"While the tear stood twinklm' iu her ee; 
I said, " My lassie, dnina cry. 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me." 
She took her mither's Holland sheets. 

And made them a' iu sarks to me : 
Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me. 

The braw lass made the bed to me : 
i'U ne'er forget till the day 1 die. 

The lass that made the bed to me ! 



flu ^nung iigjilanh IRnmr. 

Tune — Morag. 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

1'he snaws the mountains cover ; 
lake winter on me seizes, 

Suice my young Highland Rover 

Far wanilers nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

Jilay Heaven be his warden. 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 
Tlie trees now naked groaning, 

Sliall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 
The birdies dowie moaning. 

Shall a' be blythely singing, 

Aad every fl -"wei 'ie spn. ^in^. 



Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 
When by liis mighty warden 

Jly youth's returned to fair StratkipHJ? 
And bonuie Castle-Gortioa. 



Snniiic Unn. (ssi) 

Air — Ye gallants bright. 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' of grace. 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by nigbt 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd lier genty waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 
Youth, grace, and love attendant more. 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms. 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hand*. 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 

Beware o' bouuie Ann ! 



^lanming Hrllg. 

Tune — On a Bank of Flowen. 
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. 

For summer lightly drest. 
The youthful blooming Neliy lay, 

AVit^ love and sleep opprest ; 
Wlien Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood. 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'^ 

And trembled where he stood. 
Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd. 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd. 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
Tlie springing lilies sw eetly prest. 

Wild— wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd- 

His bosom ill at rest. 
Her robes light waving in the bree*^ 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace : 
I'umultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he bluali 1— 

And sigh'd his very soul. 
As flies the partridge from the hrak«v 

On fear-inspired wings, 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 
I Away affrighted springs : 



or A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 



21 



But Willie follow'd, as he should, 
He overtook her in the wood ; 

He vow'd, he pray'd, he fouud the maid 
Forgiviiig all and good. 



3Htj SnnniB fflarij. (332) 

Tone — Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonny lassie t 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry ; 
ITie slftp rides by the Berwick-law, 

And 1 maun leave my bonuie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o* war are lieard afer, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my boniiie Mary. 



%.M /nnil Hiss. (333) 

Tune — Rory Ball's Port. 

Ane fond kiss and then we serer; 
Ane fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
M'arring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
MHiile the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naethiiig could resist my Nancy 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted. 
We aad ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare the weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjo nent, love, and pleasure ! 
Ane fond k.^s, and then we sever; 
Ane fareweel, alas ! for ever I 
Deep in hf-art-\vrung tears I'll pledge the*, 
WarrLig a ghs and groans I'll wage thee I 



CllB f miling luring. 

Tune— rAe Bonny Bell 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicinjf. 

And surly winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters. 

And bonnie blue are the suimy skies. 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth tb* 
morning. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 
The flowery spring leads sunny summer. 

And yellow autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature their changes teH 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

1 adore my buunie BeU. 



f lit tt\\\ 3J!ist. 

Tune — Tlie Lazy Mist. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill, [rill; 

Concealing the course of the dark winding 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, 

appear ! 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are 

brown. 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flyuig, how keen fate 

pursues ! 
How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd 

in vain ! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain I 
What aspects old Time, in his progress, has 

worn ! 
What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit ii 

gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how dark- 

en'd, how pain'd ! [give— 

This life's not worth having with all it can 
For something beyond it poor man suri 

must live. 



<i>t a* till! Sirts iliB tBinir ran %hsu 

(334) 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bounie lassie livM^ 

The lassie I loe best : 



iaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiiii<iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiM 



812 



BURNS'S rOETICAL WORKS. 



There wild woods frrow, and rivers row. 

And niony a liill between; 
But day and ni<;ht my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in tlie dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tiinefii' birds, 

I liear lier cliarm the air ; 
Tliere's not a bonuie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or screen, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Aiuang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmj gale, frae hill and dale 

Brin;;- hanie the laden bees ; 
And hrinj^ the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ane smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean ! 

What sififhs and vows amanfr the knofrei 

Hae passed atween ns twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part^ 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken. 

To wlioni the heart is seen. 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean.' 



^]j, mm S m '^^iirnassns* Sill. (335) 

Tune. — M^/ Love is lost to mif. 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skil". 

To sing bow dear I love thee. 
Bnt Nith maun be ray muse's well. 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On (,'orsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 

Afld v~ite how dear I love thee. 

TVien come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' thr li>e-lang s.immer's day 
I couldua sing, I conldna say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I sec th?e dancing o'er the green. 
Thy wa.st sae jimp, thylimljs sae clean, 
1'ny temptnig lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth 1 love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-ficld, at hame. 

The tiiought? ( ■ thee my breast inflame; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love tliee. 
rho' I were dooni'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



^{H Climallirr's f amrnt. (338) 

Tune — Captain O'Kean. 

The small birds rejoice in the green lea'S'ss 

returning, [the vale; 

The nnirm'ring streamlet winds clear thro' 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of 

the morning, [green dale : 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the 

But what can give pleasure, or what can 

seem fair, [by c-ire ? 

While the lingerins: moments are numl>ered 

No flowers gaily springing, uor birds 

sweetly singnig. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their 
malice, 
A king ai:d a father to place on his throne? 
His rigiit are these hills, and his right arc 
these vallies. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but 
I can find none. [forlorn ; 

But 'tis not my snff'erings thus wretched. 
My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I 
mourn ! [trial — • 

Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody 
Alas ! I can make you no sweeter retui'n 1 



3Hii irart'5 in lljc SJigljIaiillj. 

Tune — Failte na Miosg. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 
not here, [deer ; 

]\Iy heart's in the Highlands a chasing the 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
roe — 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
North, [worth ; 

The birth-place of valour, the country ot 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever 1 love. 

Farewell to the mountauis high covered 
with snow ; [below : 

Farewell to the straths and green vallies 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hangins; 
woods; [floods. 

Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart ia 
not here, [deer : 

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing tho 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
roe — 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



:|l'^\^\^*'''i%J|M 








'y:^ 




on, WILLIE BREW'D. 



2ia 



Tu^'E — /o/i'< Anderson myjoi. 

John Anderson uy jo, Jolm, 

When we first aeqnent, 
Kciur locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 
Bnt now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
Bvit blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 
John Anderson my jo, John, 

W'e clamb the hill tliegither. 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

Bnt hand in hand we'll go, 
A.nd sleep thejrither at the foot, 

Joha Audersou my jo. 

Cb Barij iit Sranrn. f337) 

ToNK — Death of Captain Cook. 
Tiiou ling'rin^ star, with less'ning ray. 

That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again thou nsher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
On Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful restt 
Ste'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

liear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 
That sacred hour c«n I foTgret, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace. 

Ah ! liiile thought we 'twas our last! 
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'crhung with wild woods, thick'iiing 
green ; 
Tlie fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the rajitur'd scene; 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on every spray- 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of vv iiiged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 
And fondly broods wi'.h miser care ! 
Time bnt th' impression stronger makes. 

As streams tlieir channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade I 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Bee'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the ^?9ans that rend his 
biea&t? 



^nnng Snrkrir. 



Tune — Yonng Jociep. 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa : 
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. 
He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue. 

He roosed my waist sae genty sma'. 
And aye my heart came to my niou* 

When ne'er a body heard or s**. 
My Jockey toils upon the plain. 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and sns* 
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca* 
And aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a'. 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain, 

As laiig's he has a breath to draw. 



^jlp Dat| fxrtiirns. (338) 

Tune — Seventh of November. 

TtTE day returns, my bosom burna. 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Tlian kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heav'u gave me more — it made thee mine 

While day and night can brhig delight. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give. 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our baud. 

It breaks my bliss — it brea... mv heart I 



^!l, tliilliB ©rrni'ii. (339) 

Tune. — llullie brew'd a Peck a' Mult, 

Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 

An<l Rob and Allan cam to pree : 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are nae fou', we're no that fott'. 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may dat^ 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we; 

And mcuy a night we've merry been. 
And inony mae ve hope to be 1 



214 



BITRA'S'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It is tlm moon, 1 ken her horn. 

That's bluikin' in the Hft sae hie; 
She shines sae bright to \\ ile us harae. 

But, by niy sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall f»', 

He is the king amang us three I 



S flar!r a Wnth' &\ii f'tstrrrit. (340) 

Tune — The Blue-eyed Lass. 
I GAEO a waefu' g'ate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
"Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wet wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd ; 

She charra'd my soul— I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
Hut spare to speak, and spare to speed; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Ehonld she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue 



CjlD Sanks nf Ui% 

Tune — Rohie donna Gorach. 
The Thames flows proudly to the se«. 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me. 

Where Cummins ance had high command ; 
When shall I see that honour'd land. 

That winding stream I love so dear! 
Must waywar:i fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Wheie spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins, wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



^q Ijiart is H-kraking, IDrar 3fitth ! 

Tune— ram Glen. 
My heart is a-breakinsr, dear Tittje' 

Some counsel untc me come len', 
|"o anger them a' is the pity, 

But what will 1 do wi' Tarn Glen? 



I'm tliinking wi' sic a braw fellow 
In poortith I might make a feu'; 

Wliat care I in riches to wallow. 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen? 

There's JjowTie, the laird o' Drumeller, 
" Guid day to you, brute !" he comes ben; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 
But when will he dance like Tam Glen i 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me guid bunder marks ten: 

But if it's ordain'd I maun take bira. 
Oh wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing. 
My heart to my niou' gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew aue without failing. 
And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 

I'be last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His bkeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarrj^— 
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I loe deurly, Tam Glen 



CIjrrE'll nrurr br l^nn. 

Tone — There are few gnid fellows \ok9H 
Willie's awa. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man smg, though his head it wa« 

grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears dowTi came. 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's 

to blame. 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes harae. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
A ud now I greet round their green beds in 

the yerd. [dame — 

It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes harae. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down. 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

same — 
Th( re'll never be peace tiTl Jamie comes luimel 



"WHAT CAN A lOUNG LASSIE. 



215 



Bfildp Ijiinks mil tmt. 

Tune — My Tocher's the Jewel. 

Oh rieikle tliinks my luve o' my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

IMy tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney' he'll cherish the bee; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But au' ye be crafty, I am cunniu', 

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' you rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



Mm ran S k ffilntljB snti (^laJr. 

Tune — The bonnie Lad that's far avoa. 

Oe how can I be blythe and glad, 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
"When the bonnie lad that I loe best 
Is owre the hdls and far awa? 

When the bonnie lad that I loe best 
Is owre the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 
But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To think on him that's far awa. 
But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To thnik on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd ma a*. 
But I hae aue will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 
But I iiae ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa; 
And I will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will \\ ear them for his sakt. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



% irn rnnfws tljnti art 0ar ^jTair. (34i) 

t DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been owre the lugs in love, 

Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thy heart could move. 

20 



I do confess thee sweet, but Imd 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy swc^eti^ 
Thy favours are the silly wind, 

That kisses Uka thing it meet-3. 
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amaiig its native briers sae coy ; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ! 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

like ony common weed and vile. 



innting Inng. 

Tune — I red you beware at the hunting. 

The heather was blooming, the meadowa 

were mawn. 

Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the da\\Ti. 

Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a 

glen, [hen. 

At length they discover'd a bormie moor- 

I red you beware at the hunting, young 

men ; [men ; 

I red you beware at the hunting young 

Tak some ou the wing, and some as they 

spring. 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
ther bells. 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage out-kistred the pride o' the 

spring, 
And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red you beware, &c. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the 

hill. 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd 
where she lay. 
I red you beware, &c. 
Tliey hunted the valley, they hunted the hill; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red you beware, &c. 

• • • • 



^Ijat ran a ^^aiing ICassij. 

Tune — What can a young lassie do wi' a» 
auld man. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 

lassie, [man ? 

What can a young lassie do wi' au auii 








216 



BURNS' S POETICAL WOKKS. 



Bad luck on the penny that tempted my 

minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' ! 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my 

minnie [Ian' ! 

To sell her poor Jenny foi siller and 

He's always compleenin' frae mornin to 

e'enin', ['ang ; 

He hoasts and he hirples the weary day 

He's doyl't and he's doziii', his bluid it is 

frozen, [man ! 

Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld 

He's doyl't and he's doziu', his bluid it 

is frozen, 

Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld 

man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he 
cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a the young 
fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an.old man ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young 
fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an 
auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross h'm, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a 
new pan. 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I 
heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me 
a new pan. 



CI]? ©DiiniE Wit f Ij 

Tune — Bonnie wee thing. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest ray jewel 1 should tine. 
"Wishfully 1 look and languish. 

In that bonuie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

licst my wee thiug be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beau^. 

In ane constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou nine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel 1 should tine 1 



f DDriij Danirs. 

Tune — Miss Muir, 

HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation. 

The tuiiefu' powers, in happy hoars. 

That whispers inspiration? 
Even they maun dare an eflfort mail 

Than aught they ever gave us. 
Or they reiiearse, in equal verse. 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 

Like Phcebus in the morning. 
When past the shower, aid ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore. 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a g^ft, frae 'boon the lift. 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A scepter'd hand, a king's command. 

Is in her darting glances ; 
The man in arms, 'gainst female chann% 

Even lie her v^'illing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conqueriug, lovely Davies. 

My muse to dream of such a them^ 
Her feeble powers surrender ; 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendoar : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
The deed too daring brave is ; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 



(151;, fnr anr-antt-trarntii, (?aiiu 

Tune — The Moiuliewurt. 

CHORUS. 

And oh, for ane-aiid-twenty, Tam, 
And hey, sweet ane-and-tvventy, TaiOt 

I'U learn my kin a rattliii' sang 
An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
They snool me sair, and hand me dowTi, 

And gar me look hke bluntie, Tam ! 
But three short years will soon wheel iouq'-» 

And then conies ane-and-twenty, Taiu. 
A gleib o' lau', a claut o' gear. 

Was left me by ray auntie, Tam; 
At kith or km I need na spier. 

An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I inysel' hae plenty, Tam ; 
But hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof— • 

I'm tlune at aue-aud-tweuty, Tam. 



IN SIIIMEE, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN. 



217 



Urittnitrr's nn nnh Ima. (342) 

Tune — Oh Kenmiire's on and awn, Willie. 
Oh Ken.miire's on and awa, Willie ! 

Oil Keuraiire's on and awa ! 
And Keumure's lord's the bravest lord, 
Tliat ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie 1 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's na a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wiuej 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; [blude. 

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal ti.Tie — 

And that their faes shall ken. 

Tliey'il live or die wi' fame, AVillie ! 

They'll Hve or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' soundinjof victorie. 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie I 

Here's him that's far awa ! 
And here's the flower that I love best — 

The rose that's like the suaw ! 



Sr33 anil fjrr Ipinning Wlj^tl. 

Tune — The sxoeet lass that loes w«. 

On leeze me on ray spinnir^g-wheel. 
Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
Wliile laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Elest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
Oh leeze me on my spinning- wheell 
On ilka hand the burnies trot. 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn wliite^ 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdies nest. 
And little fishes' caller rest: 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. 
Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. 
On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale; 
The lin'.whites in the hazel brae.i, 
Deliijhted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik aman;? the clover hay. 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin' round my shieT, 
Amuse mo at my spinning-wheel. 



I Wi' sraa' to sell, and less to buy, 
! Aboon distress, below envy. 
Oh wha wad leave this humble state. 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, diiisome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



^jl turn mill '^tnhxt h. 

Tune— 3Tie Posie. 

On luve will venture in where it daumawell 

be seen ; [has been ; 

Oh luve will venture m where wisdom ance 

But I will down yon river rove, among tha 

wood sae green — 

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 

year, [dear. 

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer — 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
in view, [mou' ; 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnio 
The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its un- 
changing blue — 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily 

there ; [air— 

The daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller 

grey, [day. 

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break of 

But the songster's nest witliia the bush I 

winna tak away — 

And a' to be a posie to my aia ilear May, 



%K .fimmrr, raljrn iljt Eiii mas ?^!iiraii. 

Tune — The Country Lass. 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea. 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says — " I'll be wed, come o't what wiU.* 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild— - 

" O' guid advisement comes uae ill. 



/ 




BUEXS'S POETICAL WORKS 



It's ye liae wooers mony ane, 

And, lassie, ye' re but young, ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty feeds the luver's tire." 

•For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single fiie ; 
He loes sae weel his craps and kye. 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's ee, 

And, weel I wat, he loes me dear : 
Ane blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

• Oh thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fou han't is fechtin best. 

And hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare. 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yiU.' 

"Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' laud. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesorae luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and lu\'e brings peace and joy — 

What mair hae queens upon a throne?" 



®nrn again lljnii /air $\i\i, (343) 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ane kind blink before we part. 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The oflence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
Wliile the life beats in my bosom. 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ane sweet smile on me bestow. 

Kot the bee upon the blossom. 
In the pride o' sunny noon; 

Not the little sporting fairy. 
All beneath the simmer moou; 



Not the poet in the moment 
Fancy lightens on his ee. 

Kens the pleasure, ft els the rapture 
That thy presence gies to me. 



aitillit Wz^Ali. (344) 

Tone— r/ie Eight Men of Moidatt. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they called it Linkum-doddie: 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie. 
He had a wife was dour and din. 

Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither. 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 
She has an ee — she has but ane. 

The cat has twa the very colour : 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad (leave a miller; 
A whiskin' beard about her mou', 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither.-« 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 
She's bough-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 

Ane hmpin' leg a hand-breed shorter; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left. 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast. 

The twin o' that upon her shouthef. 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her, 
Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loqf her face a-washiu' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a husliion* 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels. 

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water. 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I waJ na gie a button for her 



liirli a prrpl nf f\ngiir5 in a IdatiiiR 

Tune — A parcel of rorjues in a nation, 
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory, 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial story. 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands. 

And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
To mark where England's province stands:'— 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation t 
What force or guile could not 8ubdu% 

Thro' many warlike ages. 
Is wrought now by a coward few. 

For hireling traitors' wages. 



LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 



219 



riieEnwHsli steel we coiilrl disdain. 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane:— 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! 
Oh would I had not seen the day 

That treason thus co\dil fell us, 
My auld grey head had lieu in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll mak tills declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold:^ 

Such a parcel of rogues iu a uatiou 1 

Inng nf JOratj). (345) 

Tune — Oran an Biog. 

Scene — A lieUl of battle.— Time of the day, 
evenini?. — The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to join in 
the following song : — 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies. 
Now g )y with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties — 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
fuel 
Go. frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know. 
No terrors hast thou to the brave! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in 
the dark. 
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious 
mark ! 
He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hands. 
Our king and our country to save — 
W bile victory shines on life's last ebbing 
sands, 
0\ ! who would not die with the brave 1 



fljp's /air anil /ansr. 

Tune — She's fair and fause. 

She's foir and fanse that causes my smart, 

I loed her meikle and lang ; 
She's bioken her vow, she's broken my heart. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 

And I liae tnit iuy dearest dear; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bounie lassie gaug. 



Wliae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 

Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! 

An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been owre meikle to gieu thee mair— • 

I mean an angel mind. 



/Inra &m\\\\, Inirrt Sftait. (346) 

Tune — The yellow-haired Laddie. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes. 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmumig stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' 
the glen, [den. 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in 3-on thony 

Thou/green-ciested lapwing thy screaming 
forbear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 
liills, • _ [nils; 

Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green vallies 
below ; - [blow; 

■VAHiere wild in the woodlands the primroses 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented bu-k shades my Mary 
and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton,how lovely it glides. 
And whids by the cot where ray Mary residf s; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gathering sweet flow'rets siie stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
braes, [lays ; 

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my 
My Mary's asleep by thy mtirmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not htB 
dream. 



20* 



^I;b fnnrlt} f ass nf Innrrnrsa, 

Tune — Lass of Inverness, 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she seet 

For e'en and morn she cries, alas * 
And aye the saut tear blin's her ee* 




^1 



mw 







^^ 



220 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Drumossie moor — Dnimossie day— 

A \raefH' day it was to me ! 
For tliere 1 lost ray fatlier dear, 

My father dear, and bretlireii three. 

Then* winding sheet the bhiidy clay. 

Their graves are growing: green to see : 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow^ thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ue'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



i rrii, rrit InsB. (347) 

Tune — Graham's Strathspey. 

On, my luve's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in .June : 
Oh, my luve's like the melodie. 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I will luve thee still, my dear, 

■\Vlulc the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while I 
And 1 will come again my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



fniiis raljat rrrlt 3 hi] iirrf. 

Tune — Louis, what reck I by 'hce. 

LoTtis, what reck I by thee. 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvor, beggar louns to me— 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my lo.e her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me: 

Kings and nations — swith, awa! 
lleit randies, I disown ye 1 



Cljp £.rrisTm.iii. (348) 

Tune — The ddl cam fiddling through 
the town. 

The deil caii fiddling through the town. 
And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 

And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize man 1" 



The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's awa wi' tiic Exciseman; 

He's danc'd awa, he's d.uic'd awa. 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman 

We'll niak our maut, we'll brew our drink. 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
And mony braw thanks to the meikle blact 
deil 
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

There's threesome reels, there's foursome 
reels. 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land 
Was — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's aw.i. 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa. 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



Iniiirbtiiii ! 

Tune — tor the sake ofsomehody 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for somebody; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-ho, for somebody ! 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I could range the world aroimd. 
For the sake o' somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous loTe^ 

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody 1 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody 
Oh-ho, for somebody I 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ! 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



i 



3*11 aijt ra'in liij \\m Qfmun. 

TuNK — I'll gae nae mair to yon ttnon, 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And see my boiuiie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail gues^ 

What brings me back the gate again. 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. 

And stowulius we sail meet again; 



COULD OUGHT OF SONG. 



221 



Bl'e'U wander by the aiken tree, 

^Vhell trystiii-tiine draws near again; 
Ajid when her lovely form I see, 

Oh hailh, she's doubly dear again! 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, again; 
I'll aye ta' in by yon town, 

Aud see my bonnie Jeau again. 



Wdi fljmi hr mii IDrnrit? (340) 

Air — The Sator's Dochler. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

AVhen sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear aud vow that only thoU 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou loes me ; 
Or if thou wilt nae be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou, for tlihie may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou loes me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou loes me. 



i)^, lUit i|r tlijja's in pn €mn. (350) 

Tune — I'll fjae nae mair to yon town. 

On, wat ye wha's in yon town. 

Ye see the e'eniu' sun upon? 
The fairest dame's in yon town. 

The e'eniu' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her ee I 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year! 

And doubly welcome be the si)ring. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my deli;.;ht in you town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy rair. 

Without my love, not a' the charmi 
O" Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy ni my arms, 
Aud welcome Lapland's dreary sky I 



My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air: 

And she a lovely little flower. 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

Oh sweet is she in yon town. 

Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon) 

A fairer than's in yon town 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And snft'ering I am doom'd to bear; 

I careless quit ought else below, 
But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear I 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she— as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart I 



Cnt laMn inn. 

T<;ne— r/ie Winter of Life. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

Tiie woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowera^ 

In double pride were gay; 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array. 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eilil, but buss or beild. 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days. 

And iiiiihts o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' primc^ 

Why comes thou not again ? 



Cnnlil niiglft nf inng. 

Tune — Could owjM ofsonrf. 

Could ought of song declare my pains. 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
Tlie muse should tell, in labour'd strain^ 

Oh Mary, how I love thee 1 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish; 
But what avails the pride of art. 

When wastes the soul with angu'sh? 

Then let the sudden bursting sig'ii 
The heart-felt pang discover; 

And in the keen, yet tender eye. 
Oh read th' imploring lover I 




iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiniiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 




222 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For well I know thy jrentle mind 
Disdains art's gay disgiiisin^j ; 

Beyond what fancy e'^r refiii'd, 
i'ke voice of nature prizing. 



(DIj, Itrrr jirr u?. 

Tune — Oh eteer her up, and haud her gaun. 

On steer her nf and haud her gaun — 

Her mother's at the null, jo ; 
And gif she winna take a man, 

I'Veri let her take her will, jo ; 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss. 

And c.V another gill, jo. 
And gif she take the thing amiss, 

E'veii let her flyte her Jill, jo. 
* 
Oh steer her up, and be na blate. 

And gif she take it ill, jo, 
Tlien lea'e the lassie till her fate. 

And time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ane rebute^ 

]5ut think upon it still, jo ; 
Then gif the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'U liud auither will, jo. 



^t mM a* fnr nnr 5Rig!jtIV Iting. (ssi) 

Tune — It 'xas a' for our ritjhtfu' king. 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We left fair Scotland's straudj 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish laud. 

My dear ; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Nc* a' is done that men can do^ 

And a' is done in vain ; 
Vy love and native land farewell. 

For 1 maun cross the main. 
My dear ; 

For I mauu cross the main. 

He turned him right, and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gie his bridle-reins a shake. 

With adieu for evermore. 
My dear ; 

With adieu for evermore. 

Tlie sodger from the wars returns^ 

The sador frae the main ; 
But I hae parted frae my lovfl^ 

Kever to meet again. 
My dear ; 

Never to meet again. 



When day is gane. and night is conu^ 
And a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa'. 
The lee-lang night and weep. 

My dear ; 
The lee-lang night and weep. 



^ Wljz is IjjE tljat tm tnu 

Tune — Morag. 

On wha is she that loes me. 

And has my heart j-keeping? 
Oh sweet is she that loes me. 
As dews o' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heart 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming; 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking. 

But her by thee is slighted. 
And thou art all delighted. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted. 
If every other fair one. 

But her, thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heaitp 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind^ 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



Calfltnnia. 

Tone — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

There was once a day — but old Time tlen 
was young — [line. 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her 
From some of your northern deities eprnng, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledouia'i 
divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her doroain. 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
woidd : 
Her heav'nly relations there fixed her 
reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads towuk 
rant it good. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 



221 



A laialikin in peace, but a lion in war. 
The pride of lier kindred the lieroiae 
grew : 
Uer graudsire old Odin, trinirphantly swore 
" Whoe'er shall provoive thee, th' en- 
counter sha)l ne ! " [sport, 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
To feed her fair flocks by her green 
rustling corn ; [resort, 
Bnt chiefly the woods were her fav'rite 
resort, [the horn. 
Her darling amusement the hounds and 
Long quiet she reigu'd; tUl thitherward 
steers 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
Ilfrpeated, successive, for many long years. 
They darkeu'd the air, and they plunder'd 
the laud ; [cry. 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their 
'lliey conquer'd and ruiu'd a world beside; 
Bhe took to her hills, and her arrows let 
fly— [died. 
The daring invaders they fled or they 

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the 
north, [the shore ; 

Tlie scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
Hie wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in 
gore : [prevail'd. 

O'er countries and kingdoms their fury 
No arts could appease them, no arms 
could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed. 
As Largs well can witness and Loncartie 
tell. 

The Cameleon-aavage disturb'J her repose. 
With tumult, disquiet, rebelbon, and 
strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 
And robb'a him at once of his hopes and 
his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 
Oft prowhng, ensauguin'd the T^veed's 
silver flood : 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 
He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and 
free, [run : 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 
I'll prove it from Euchd as clear as the 
sun : 
Bectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose. 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is 
the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; 
Then ergo, she'll match them, and match 
theiu always. 



^, l^ tim f nuf in Wim, Taa 

Tune — Cordwalnei's March. 

Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lu^ 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway. 
He aft h.is wrought me meikle waaj 
But now he is ray deadly fae. 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast^ 
For ever to remain. 

Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass : 
And swear on thy white hand, lass. 
That thou wilt be my aim. 



Snna, tlm Cljarraa. 

Tune — Bonnie Mary. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom %x% 

And waste ray soul with care ; 
But, ah ! how bootless to admire, 

Wlien fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 

To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair. 

So much in sight of Ueav'a. 



(Slnnmi} Dmmlifr. 

Tune — Wandering Willie. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decem 
her! 
Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes rae i» 
member, 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to '^eet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful plea- 
sure, [hour ; 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting 
But the dire feeling, oh farewell for ever. 
Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter nowteariig the forest. 
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 
Since my last hope and last comfort m 
goue. 



Iti 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Still as T hail thee, thou a:looniy Doretnber, 
Still shall 1 hail thee wi' sorrow and care; 

For sad was the parting thou makest me re- 
member, 
Paitiug wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



^Il 3Hallif5 mrrlt, Hallifs imrit. 

On Mally's meek, iMally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 

As I was walking up the street, 
A barertt maid 1 chauc'd to meet; 

But oh the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon. 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare. 

Comes triukUng down her swan-white neck; 

And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 



fossillis' Sanks. 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green. 

And scatter'd (-owslips sweetly spring; 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks wlien e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
Tliere catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's eel 

The, child wha boasts o' warld's wealth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
Bft Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah I fortune caunie gie me mair. 
Tlien let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bouuie bUuk o' Mary's e»l 



Ut^ l^aiij's &m\i, i^ms (Stairs npnn't. 

Tune — Gregg's Pipes. 

My Lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; 
But Jenny's jimps andjirkinet. 
My lord thinks uiickle mair upon't. 



My lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are naaef 

By Cohu's cottage lies his game. 

If Cohn's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' bluid; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship loed. 

Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss^ 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pase, 
There wous aiild Coliu's bouuie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs. 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy z' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man loes best. 
Oh that's the lass to make lum blest. 



1 



^\ji JfiU (!I^fifini;iEtn». (358) 

Tune — KilUcranJcie. 

On wha will to Saint Stephen's house. 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's houses 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland 9* 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 

Come, will ye court a noble lord. 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Tht'ir vote shall be Glencaird's, mat; ? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Auither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' tiste. 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 

Wlien Love and Beauty heard the news. 

The gay green-woods amaiig, man ; 
WTiere, gathering flowers and busking bowers 

They heard the blackbird's sang, maa : 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss 

Sir Politics to fetter. 
As theirs alone, the patent-blisa, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted IMirth, on gleesome win^ 
Owre hill and dale she flew, man ; 

Ek wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring. 
Ilk glen and shaw she kne>v, niau : 










ii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiii[iiiKiiiiiuiiiiiiiii;niiiiiiiiiii«iiiifua,,iiiiiiiirii!iiiiiiL:ui!ii.4«iiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiii!iiiHiiiiiii;iii^ 



LOVELl POLLY STE"WART, 



22A 



She summon'c? every social sprite, 

Tliat sports by wood or water. 
Oil th' bijiiuie banks of Ajt to meet. 

And keep tliis Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew. 

Were bound to stakes like kye, mau : 
And Cjiitnia's car, o' silver fu', 

Claiub up the starry sky, man : 
Kcflected beams dwell in tiie streams. 

Or down tjie current shatter; 
The western breeze steals through the trees 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae praily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man! 
To Harmonj 's enchanting notes. 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
Tlie echoinar wood, the winding flood, 

I>ike Paraaise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics came there to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man : 
He circled round the magic ground. 

But entrance found he nane, man : (353) 
He blushed for shame, he quat his name. 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

Tliis festive Fete Champetre. 



Clir Diimfrirs 3}nlitnti!pr!. 

Tune — Push about the Jorum. 

Does haughtjr Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir; 
fliere's woodeu walls upon our seai^ 

And voluntpers on shore. Sir. 
Tlie Nith shall run to Corsicon, 

And Critfel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally! 
Fal de ral, &c. 

Oh, let us not; like snarling tyltei 

In wrangling be divided; 
Till, slap, come in an unco looi^ 

And wi' a rang decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain ttvib. 

Among ourscls united ; 
For nc\er but by British hands 

Maun British wraiigs be righted 
Fal de ral, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and states 
Perhajis a cla\it may fail in't: 

But deil a foreign tinkler Icon 
Shall ever ca' a nail ia't. 



Our father's bluid the kettle bought; 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 
Fal de ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Wlio would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the King." 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the Peoole. 
Fal de ral, &c. 



^, Hurt Qfljnn in tjjp ^u\\ %h± (ssij 

Tune — Lass o' Livistone, 

On, wert thou in the cauld blast 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around the blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

i"o share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and baw; 
The desert were a Paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

W'i' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
Tlie brightest jewel in my cro\ra 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



tm\r\ ^.Inllii Itrmart. 

Tone — Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart. 
On lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fodes and fa'i, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will give to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arms shall fauld thy cbanM 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart 
Oh lovely PoUy Stewart ! 

Oh channing Polly Stewart I 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



226 



BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 



Tune — Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place wliere body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on tliis breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his mainia. 
Was naothing to my hiuny blist 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarclis tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straiinng grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charma. 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Dk star gae hide thy twinkling ray. 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna 1 



Cljt Tra fug. 

Tune — 2'Ae Lea rig. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin time is near, my jo; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd tield, 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birlci 

^^'i' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
ni meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain knid dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I ga£d to thee, 

JMy ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter loes the morning sin,. 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo I 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo; 
Gie me the hour o' gloainin grey. 

It maks my heart sae cheery 0^ 
To meet tliee on the lea-rig. 

My ain Idud dearie O. 



fSnnnii! f rslrif. (355) 

Tune — The Collier's Bonnie LasiUk 

Oh saw ye bonnie liCsley, 

As she gaed owre the border? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests fartbf?. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither ! 

Thon art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy sulijoots we, before theo^ 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

Tlie deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say " I caiina wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a las» 

There's iiaue again sae bouuie. 



Win r\i Gn in \\}t Sn^irs, mtj Mm- (35« 

Tune — The Ewe-huchts. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave aidd Scotia's shore? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orangs^ 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to ny ]\fary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be tru»; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me. 
When I forget my vow ! 

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual alfection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part at I 

The hour and the moment o' time 1 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



227 



She is a winsome wee thin]^. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
Slie is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' miuo, 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never loe'd a dearer ; 

And neist ray heart I'll wear hct 

For fear my jewel tiue. 

On leeze me on my wee thing, 
My bonnie blythesome wee thing; 
5ae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we shave ot. 
And may see nieikle mair o't; 
Wi' her I'll blytliely bear it. 
And ue'ei a word repine. 



Sigljlantr Waxi\. (357) 

Tune — Katharine Orjie. 

J"e banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer tirst unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland !Mary. 

■Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, ])ledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the cl»y. 

That wraps my Highland Mary 1 

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lipt, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

'J'hat heart that loe'd me dearly 1 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Uiglilaud Mary. 



M\ mnli 3IIiirri5. 

There's auld Rob Morris that won* in yon 
glen, [men ; 

Pie's the king o' guid fellows and wale o'auld 

He has goud in his coffers, he has owsen and 
kine. 

And ane bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May! 
She's sweet as the ev'iiiiig amang the new 
hay : [lea. 

As blythe and as artless as the Iambs on the 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a 
laird, [and yard ; 

And my daddie has naught but a ^;ot-house 
P> wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
1 he wounds I must hide that will soon be 
my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 
nane; [gane: 

The night comes to me, but my rest it is 

I wander my lane like a uight-troubled 
ghaist, [breast. 

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smU'd upoD 
me 1 [bhss, 

Oh, how past describing had then been my 
As now my distraction no words can express I 



Dnnran (Praij. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo^ 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
On blythe Yule night when we were lb'. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray*d{ 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleert and bliB* 
Spake o' lowpin' owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 
Ua, ha, &c. 
21 



228 



BURNS'S rOETICAL WORKS, 



Shall I, like a fonl. quoth he. 
For a haughty liizzie die? 
She may gae to — France for me 1 
Ha, ha, &c. 

How it come? let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, &:c. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something iu her hosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And oh, her een, they speak sic things 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
INIagsie's was a piteous case, 

Ila, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now tliey're crouse aud cauty baith; 

Ua, ha, &c. 



Tdne — / had a Horse. 

Oh poortith ca\ild, and restless love^ 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

Au 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
Oh why should fate sic pleasure havt^, 

Life's dearest bands untwinuig ? 
Or wliy sae sweet a dower as love. 

Depend on Fortune's shining? 

Tlus warld's wealth when I think or^ 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't; 

Fi;, fie on silly coward man, 
That he ihould be the slave ot 
Oh why, &c. 

HiT een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye. 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
Oh why, &c. 

Oh wha can prudence think upon. 

And sic a lassie by him? 
Oh wha can prudence think upoi^ 

Aud sae in love as I am ? 
Oh wljy, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate I 
He wooes his simple dearie ; 

The silly bogles, weakh and states 
Can uever make iliem eerie. 
Oh why, &c 



Qik tllitrr. (sss) 

There's braw, braw lads on Yanow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heathet 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick sluiws. 
Can match the lads o' Gala \A'atei. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I loe liim better; 

And I'll be his and he'll be mine. 
The bonuie lad o' Gala Water. 

Altho' his daddic was nae laird, 
And tho' i hae na meikle tocher; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 

A\'e'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth. 
That coft contentment, peace, or i)leasure; 

The bauds and bliss o' mutual love, 

Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasu'^e i 



fniii (Prrprij. 

Oh mirk, mirk is this miJnigh* hour. 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha'. 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pily on me shaw. 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gtova 

By bonnie Irwine side. 
Where tirst I owu'd that virgin-lo7« 

I lang, lang had denied? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ue'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by. 

Oh wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victim see; 
But s'l a e and pardon my fause love, 

Uid wraugs to Heaven aud me I 



m^ mum. (359) 

Tune — Bide ye yet. 

Oh Marv, at thy window be 

It is tiie wish'd, the trysted hourl 

Those smiles and glun les let me see. 
That make the miser's treasure poof I 



THE SOLDIER'S RETUEIf. 



229 



How biyfhcly wad I hide the stoiire, 
A weitry sla\e fn?e suii to sua, 

Coulil I the rich reward secure. 
The lovely Alary Morisou. 

Yestreen when to the tremhlin? string, 

Tiie (lance jjjaed tliro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its win^, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said auian;; them a' 

" Ye are ua Mary Aiorisou." 

Oh ATary, canst thon wreck his peace, 

\\'\u for thy sake wad glaiily die ? 
Or Ciuist thou break tliat heart of his, 

AVhase only faiit is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thou;^ht o' Maiy Morisoo, ^ 



13?anlirring l^illlr. 



Heke awa, there awa, wandering Willie^ 
Here awa, there awa, hand awa liame ; 
CoMie to my bosom, my ain ordy dearie. 
Tell me thou briiig'st me my Willie the same. 

M'inter-Minds blew loud and cauld at our 

parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; 
Welcome now simmer and welcome my 

AAillie, 
ITie simmer to nature, ray Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild atorms, iu the cave of your 

slumbers, 
Uow your dread howling a iflver alarms ! 
Waukcii, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows I 
Aiid waft my dear laddie auce mair to my 

arms ! 

Bat oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his 

Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaringmain 1 
May 1 iicver see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Wilhe's my ain ! 



CjjE 



InlMpr's IRrttirit. (3C0) 

Aiu — The mill, mill O. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blami. 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' hiony a sweet b.d)e fatherless, 

Aiid mouy a wulot^ mourmng : 



I left the lines and tented field. 

Where laug I'd been a lodger. 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal light heart was in my breast 

My hand unstain'd wi' i)lunder : 
And for fair Scotia, harae again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought ui)on my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 

Where early, life I sported ; 
1 pass'd the mill, and trysting thoru. 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid 

Down by her mother's dttelling! 
And turu'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my ecu was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lasi^ 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom. 
Oh ! happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
Jly purse is light, I've far to gang. 

And fain would be thy lodger ; 
I've served my king and comury lang- 

Take pity on a sodger !" 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 

And lovelier was tlian ever ; 
Quo' she, " A sodger ance I loe'd. 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our hundjle cot and hamely fare 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily ; 

She sank within my arms, and cried, 
"Art thou my ain dear Willie?" 

"By Him who made yon sun and sky. 
By whom true love's regarded, 

I am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 

And fnid thee still true hearted ! 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich m love. 

And mair we're ne'er be parted." 
Quo' she, "Aly grandsire left me gowd, 

A maden plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 

For gold the merchant ploughs the meiai 
The farmer ploughs the manor; 

But glory is the sodger's prize. 
The sod"ei''s wealth is honour. 




MW'^ 



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iiilllHlllllillllllllllilllllllillllliilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllli 



230 



EURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The brave poOT sonjer ne'er despiae, 
Nor count him as a stranger : 

Remember he's his co mtry's stay 
lu day and hour of danger. 



Sluiljr fiat % hnn m unn 21111, 

Tune — Liycjeram Cosh. 
Blytiie bae I been on yon hiH 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thou;;ht and free. 

As the lireeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae 1 • ijfer sport and play, 

JMirth or saii^ can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize roe. 
Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sisluug, dr.mb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

lu my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



fngi'.n Stars, (sei) 

Tune — Logan Water. 

Oh Logan^ sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years siusyne hae o'er us ruiv 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While ray dear lad maun face his fac;^ 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o* May 

Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 

The bees hum roiuid the breathing flowers ; 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye. 

And evening's tears are tears of joy; 

My soul, deilghtless, a' surveys. 

While Wilbe's far frae Logan braes. 

W^ithin yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her tod. 
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Oh, wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse 'o deadly hatel 
As ye make many a lond heart mourn, 
*«« may it on your heads return I 



How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy dayi^ 
And Wiilie hame to Logan braes ' 



<!I>!j, gin mi; Innt mfri? iinn IRrii f\ti3i!! (SS3| 

Air — Tlmjhie Graham. 

On, gin my love were yon red ross 
That grows upon the castle wa'j 

And I mysel a drap o' dew, 
hito her bouuie breast to fa' ! 

Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' tlie night! 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 

Oh, were my love yon lilach fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 
And I, a bird to shelter there, 

"V\'hen wearied on my little wing- 
How I wad mourn, when it was torn 

By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youtlilV May its bloom renew*dL 



Snnnic ^nn. (363) 

Iheiie was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and marivet to be seen ; 

When a' the fairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wTought her mammie's war^ 
And aye she sang sae merrilie : 

Tlie blythesc bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a hghter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwiiite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers ; 
And love will break the soundest rest 

Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danc'd wi Jeanie on tlie down; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stewft 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at ilewy e'en % 

So trembling, jiure, was tender love 
WitUm the breast o' bouuie Jean. 




•^^ lulllilllllllllllllllllllllllilllllllllllililllililllilllll. 






ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID TVANDEE. 



2G1 



AjicI now she works her mamniie's wark. 
And ave slie sijjtis wi' care and pain; 

Yet wist iia what her ail niisht Ije, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup lights 
And did na joy blink in her ee^ 

As Kobie tauld a tale o' love 
Ae e'euin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grovSj 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' lore: 

" Oh Jeanie fair, I loe thee dear ; 

Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ; 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or bjTe thou shalt na drudge. 
Or naething else to trouble thee; 

But stray amang the heather-bells. 
And tent the waving corn wi' me." 

Now wliat could artless Jeanie do ? 

Slie had uae will to say him na ; 
At leivn'th she blush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was aye between them twa. 



3^!rg n* tljB mi 

Air — Oh Bonnie Lasswill you lie in a Barrack 7 

Oh ken ye wha jMeg o'the Mill has gotten? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 

gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The jMiller was strappiu', the Miller was 

ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The liaird was a wi.idiefu', bleerit knurl ; — 
She's left the guidfellow and taen the churl. 

The IMiller he hecht her & heart leal and 
loving ; [moving, 

Tlie Laird did address her wi' matter more 
A tine paciug horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bouuie side-saddle. 

Oh wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ! 
Aiid wae on the love that is tixed on a luailen ! 
A tocher's nae word Lu a true lover's parle. 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



(Dpn iljB Dnnr tn Mt, nji! 

"On! open the door, some pity to show. 
Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! [true, 

iTio' thou hast been fa'se, I'll ever prove 
Oh ! open the door to me, oh 1 

21 



Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheeit. 
But cauhler thy love for me, oh ; 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the whit* 
wave. 

And time is setting with me, oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble tl.em, nor thee, oh !" 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd i| 
wide ; 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh t 
"My true love !" she cried, and sank dowa 
by his side, 
Never to rise again, oh I 



Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

Trtje hearted was he, the sad swain o' (he 
Yarrow, [tiie Ayr, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vani : 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy 
morning, 
And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
Bnt in the fair presence o' lovely young 
Jessie 
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring: 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law; 
And still to her charms she alone is t 
stranger — 
Her modest demeauour'a the jewel of »'l 



Tune — The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre^ 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 
To mark tlie sweet flowers as they spring 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 
Of PhiUis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beautiei 
They never wi' her can compare; 

Whaever has met wi' my Pbillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fail 



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•'■^^ -^ _ J.AS^ f^~r< 



^Mii (T*-^ — ^ 



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232 



BUKIifS'S PC'ETICAL WOEKS. 



The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. 

So artless, so siraiile, so wild ; 
Tliou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 

Tlie rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer aud purer her breast. 

Ton knot of ^ay flowers in the arbour. 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Il"3 dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 

Her voice is the son? of the morninpr. 

That wakes thro' the jrreen-spreadina: grove. 

When Phoebus peeps over tlie mountains. 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But, beauty, how frail and how fleeting — 
The bloom of a tine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phxllis 
Will floui-ith without a decay. 



mi % a €m. (364) 

Tune — Robin Adair. 

Hau I a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar; 
There would I weep my woes. 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till ?rief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more ! 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
AH thy fond-plighted vows — fleeting »s air I 

To thy n;w lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury; 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is tkers' 



IMjillls tliD /air. (3C5) 

Tune — Robin Adair. 

While larks with the wing, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth I (lid fare; 
Gay tbe sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 
8uch thy morn ! did I cry, 

I'hdlis the fair. 



In each bird's careless sosig. 

Glad did I share ; 
"Wniile yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 
Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing \\ ere ; 
I maik'-J the cruel hawk 

CauL'ht in a si.sr<» • 
So kind may fortune be. 
Such make liis destiny. 
He who would injure the«, 

Phillis the fair. 



$j} illan Hum % rljanr'il in Urau. 

Tune — Allan Water. 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove. 

While Phcebus sank beyond Benleddi; (366) 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove. 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sany. 

And thought on youttifu' pleasures mony; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

Oh, dearly do 1 love thee, Annie 1 
Oh. happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time 1 met my dearie! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 
The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day. 

Is autunni in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? 



i>mi lit niB hh Cljif tn raq ©rrasi. 

Air — Caidd Kail. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld s wealth aud grandeur,' 
And do I hear my Jeauie own 

That equal transports move heiP 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 



Yr^^ 




BEHOLD THE HOUR. 



233 



riius in tiiy aims, wi' all thy charms, 

1 clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek iiae mair o' lieaven to share. 

Than sic a moment's ])leasnre : 
And by thy een sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm tliiue for ever! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

^Viid break it shall I uever I 



Wljblk n^ S'll Cum tn ijnn, imj Tall. 

Tune — Jfliistle and I'll come to you^ my lad. 

Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
Oh whistle an 1 I'll come to you, my iad; 
Tho' father and niitber and a' should gae mad. 
Oh wiiistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
And come as ye were ua comiu' to me. 
And come, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gan;^ by me as tli.>' that ye car'd nae a tlie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee. 
Yet look as ye were ua lookiu' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may li;,^luly my beauty a wee; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be, 
Tor fear that she wile your fancy £rae me. 
Tor fear, &c. 



Dainti} Slanip. (367) 

Tune — Dainty Bapie. 

Now rosy JNIay comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her f,'ay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now come in my happy houc% 
To wander wi' my Bavie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe^ 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; 

Tliere I'll spend the day wi' yov^ 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The meriy birds are lovers a', 
Xlie scented breezes round us blaw. 
A-waiideriug wi' my Davie. 

Wlien purple morning starts the Yam, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews 1 will repair. 
To meet my faithfu.' Davie. 



When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I loe best, 
Aad that's my aiu dear Davie. 



Srnrc's !iliikp33. (358) 

Tune— i% Tuttie Taittie. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and nnw's the houi; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's povrci>-< 
Chams and slavery 1 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can till a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee 1 
■Wlia for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draW; 
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa'. 

Let him follow me I 

By oppression's woes and pains 1 
By your sons in ser\ile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free 1 

Lay the proud usurpers lov? I 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow !— 
Let us do, or die i 



I3rlinl!r ilir Uniir. (Scd> 

Tune — Orau Gaoil. 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart I 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part 
I'll often greet this surging swell. 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
"E'en here I took the lajt farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vauish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolhng, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wisttul eye; 
Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say. 

Where now my Nancy's path may be 1 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

Oh, tell me, does she mii^ on me! 




. •Vvj 




234 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



3ni!r fanii liinp. 



Shouid anld aainaiiitaiice be forgot. 
And never lirou^lit to mind ? 

Bhould aiild Kctiuaiiitaiice be forgot, 
Aud uu> s o' laiig syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For anld lan«c syne, my dear, 

For auld laiig syne. 
We'll talc a cup o' kuidness yet. 

For auld luii!; syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans line ; 
But we've wandered luoiiy a weary foot, 

Siu auld lang syne. 

We twa hac paidl't i' tlie biim, 

Frae moriiin' suu till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 

Sin auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willic-waught. 

For auld lang syue. 

And surely ye'U be your pint stoup. 

And s\irt'!y I'll be nunc; 
And we 11 tak a cup o' kiudiiess yet 

For auld laug sy ue. 



W^m m tljE Siiijs? 

Tune — Saw ye my father? 

Wheue are the joys I have met in the 
moruuig, 

That danc'd to the lark's early song? 
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring. 

At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river. 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more 1 trace the light footsteps of 
pleasure, 
Bat sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our vallies, 
And grim surly winter is near? 

Ko, no ! the bees humming round the gay 
roses. 
Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would 1 hide what I fear to discover. 

Yet long, long too well have I known, 
AH that has caused this wreck iu my bosom. 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, euamour'd and fond of my 
anguish, 

Enjoyment Fll seek in my woe. 



Cljaii Ijast Xrft m im. 

Tune — Fee him. Father. 

Tuou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast Icfl 
me ever, [me ever ; 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou li;\~t, left 

Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should 
us sever. 

Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun 
see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Tliou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast mo 
forsaken, [forsaken ; 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me 

Thou canst love auither jo, while my heart ii 
breaking : 

Soon my weary een I'll close — never msii 
to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



TuNEr-y/'e Collier's Bonnie Lassie. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The tickle Fair can give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure — 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean. 

The breezes idly roaming. 
The clouds' uncertain motion, 

They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou would'st be name^ 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ! 

Good claret set before the* 2 
Hold on till thou art mellow. 

And then to bed iu glory. 



■ffljinj S am, m\\ /aitljfiil / 

Tune — Li(j(jeram Cosh \jthe Quaker 

Thine am I, my faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving faucy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
Tlirre to throb aud languish: 

Tho' despair had wrung its co-re. 
That would heal its anguish. 



itr. 

'« wife} 



i 



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ON THE SEAS ANT) FAR AWAY. 



235 



Take away fhese rosy lips, 
Rich with b.iliny treasure: 

rum away thine eyes of love, 
Ijcst I die with pleasura 

What is life when wanting love? 

Nitrlit without a morning : 
Lcve's the cloudless snuiuier sun, 

Kature gay adorning. 



Blij fpiisp, rdannt. 

Tune — My Jo Janet. 

"Husband, husband, cease your strife. 

Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir." 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man, or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

"If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reigii lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance 1" 

' Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" My poor heart then break it must. 

My last hour I'm near it : 
Wlien you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it." 

"I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

]My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your miilnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you.* 

* I'll wed another like my dear, 

Nancv, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Naucy." 



TuNK— r/ie Banks 0/ Cree. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade; 

The > iilage-bell has toll'd the hov r. 
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 



"Tls not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the bahny-breathing gale, 
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fal^ 

The dewy stars of eve to hail. 

tt is 'Maria's voice I hear ! — 

So calls the woodlark in the groT* 

His little faithful mate to cheer ! 
At once 'tis music aud 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? — and art thou true f 
Oh welcome, dear to love and me 

And let us all our vows renew. 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



^2. IjiE f ras En\ ^JTar ^m^, 

Tune — O'er the hilUj §-c. 

How can my poor heart be glarl, 
\Mien absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe? 
Let me wander, let me rove. 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by daj 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away. 

On stormy seas and faraway; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

WTien in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me paut. 
Haply in the scorching sun 
My sailor's thuiid'ring at his gua; 
Bullets spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy! 
Fate, do with me what you may. 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless power; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar. 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

Ail I can — I weep and pray. 

For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 

And bid wild war his ravage en^ 

Man with brotner man to meet. 

And as a brotlier kindly greet : 

Then may Heaven with prosperous galei^ 

FiU my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey. 

My dea>- lad that's far away. 






^»-c>^ 




238 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ca' tilt fmn k \\}i IRnnmrs. 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them wliere the buraie rows. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Cloudeii's woods amang; 
Then a-fauldiiig let us gang. 
My bonuie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clonden side 
Thro' me iiazels spreading wide. 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clonden's silent towers, 
Wliere at moonshine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonuie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown ray very heart; 
I call die — but caiiiia part. 
My bonuie dearie. 

WHiile waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the hit sae hie; 
Till clay-cauld death shall bliu' my ee. 
Ye shall be my dearie. 



^Ijt satjs slji! f nrs mc Srnt nf £' 

Tune — Onagh's Lock. 

Bak flaxen were her ringlets. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitcliingly o'er-arcliing 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her siniling, sae wiling, 

Would make a wretch forget his woe : 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow: 
Such was my Chloris' bonuie face. 

When first her bonnie face I saw. 
And aye ray Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she loes me best of a'. 

like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

^Vad nvike a saint forget the slcy. 
Sae warming, sae charniing, 

Her faultless form and graceful air; 
Dk feature — auld nature 

Declared that she coidd do uae mair. 



Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign Itw j 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she loes me best of a'. 
Let others love the city. 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang; 
Wliile falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

Aud say thou loes me best of a' 1 



#am lit mij ^.Mjilli]? 

Tune — When she cam hen she bohhit. 
On, saw ye my dear, ray Plsilly? 
Oh, saw ye ray dear, iny Philly ? 
She's down i' the gr(3ve, she's wi' a new lov«^ 

She winna come liaiue to her Willie. 
■\\niat says she, my dearest, ray Philly ? 
What says she, my dearest, ray Philly ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 

And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly i 
Oh, had I ne'er seen tliee, my Philly ! 
As light as the air, and fause as tliou's fair, 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



SJnia f nng anh lOrrant is fljc Dligljt? 

(370) 
Tune — Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 
How long and dreary is the night 

When 1 am fiae my dearie ? 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I we're ne'er sae weary. 
CHORUS. 
For oh ! her lauely nights are lang. 

And oh ! her dreams are eerie, 
And oh ! her widow'd hcai t is sair. 
That's absent frae her dearie. 
When I thuik on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, ray dearie, 
And now what seas between us roar, 
llow can 1 be but eerie ? 
For oh ! &c. 
How slow ye move, ye heavy hoiira 

The joyless day, how dreary 1 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh I &c. 



FAEE^ELL THOU STREAM THAT WINDES'G FLOWS. 



*37 



f rt nnt Wmnm I'rr Cniiipiaitt. 

Tune — Duncan Gray. 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of iiicou3ta!icy in love ; 
Let net woman e'er complain 

Fickle mail is apt to rove. 

Look abroad throngh Nature's range. 
Nature's mighty law is change; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should then a monster prove? 
Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Roi'ud and round the seasons gou 

WTiy then ask of silly man 
To oppose great Nature's plan? 
We'll be constant while we can— 
You can be no more, you kuov. 



Ilrrp'st ^m, nr W'ili'si tijnn? (37i) 

Tune — Dell tak the tvars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 

Kosy morn now lifts his eye, [ture ? 

Nuinbering ilka buil, which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' tlie leafy woods. 

And by the reeking floods. 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray : 

The lintwhite in iiis bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower. 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' saiigs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 
Fhcebus gilding the brow o' morumg, 

Uanishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladd'uing and adorning; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent from my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravibh'd sight, 

W'heii through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart, 
Tis then I wake to life, to li^-ht, and joy. 



3Hii Cljlnris, tiark Ijara torn tljr (Prnurs. 

Tune — 3Iy lodt/wr/ is on the cold ground. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 

The primrose banks how fair; 
The balmy gales awake the flovers. 

Ami Wd\t thy flaxen hair 



The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

Aud o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' strioj 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 
The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as oma 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 
The shepherd, in the flowery glen. 

In shepherd's phrase will woo: 
The courtier tells a liner tale. 

But is his heart as true ? 
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtier's gems may witueag love- 
But 'tis ua love like miue. 



St mas tljB (E^Iianning Mw\^ nf ^an. 

(572) 
Tune — Dainty Davie. 
It was the charming month of Jlay, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh aud gay, 
One morning, by the break of day. 
The youthtul, charming Chloe, — 
From peaceful slumber she arose. 
Girt on her man lie and her hyse. 
And o'er the flovv'ry mead she goes,-^ 
The youthful, charming Cldoe. 
CHORUS. 
Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chios, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
The feather'd people, you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree. 
In notes of sweetest melody. 

They hail the charming C'h'.oe; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skiei^ 

The glorious sun began to rise, 

Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Cliloe. 

Lovely was she, &.c. 



/arrmrll, iljm f trram lliat aUinMirj 

Tune — Nancy's to the greenwood gone. 
Fakewell, thou stream that winding floara 
Around Eliza's dwelling! 
I Oh mem'ry I spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelliiuj : 




ll|ll|||||ll|llll!lllll!llllllHinilllllHlH1lll Hllllllllllllllllillllllini 




238 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Con^pmnM to drng^ a hopeless chaii^ 

And yet in secret laiig'uish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 
Love's \criest wretch, unseen, unknoin^ 

I fain iny griefs would cover : 
rhe bursting sigh, th' unweeting groai^ 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair. 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; 
But, oh ! Eliza, hear one prayer. 

For pity's sake, forgive me ! 
The music of thy voice I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothinu- fear'd^ 

'lill fears no more had sav'd me. 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruia. 



turn i!ii' tjjp lint-raliiti! Xnrkl. 

Tune — Rothiemurche's Rant. 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white \ocia, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flock% 

Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 

Fow Nature deeds the flowery lea. 

And a' is young and sweet like thee: 

Oh, wilt thou share its joy wi' me. 

And say thou'lt be my dearie O? 

Lassie wi' the liut-white locks, &c. 
And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has chcer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to tiie breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
Wlicn Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray. 
The weary shearer's hameward way. 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
Aiid talk o' love, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the liut-white locks, &c. 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs ray lassie's midnight rest. 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the liut-white locks, Ac 

pjilln anil -Jitillij.- 

Tuna— r/ie Sow's Tail 

WILLY. 

On Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather'd hay, 
kly youthfu' ueart was stown away, 
Aad by thy charms, my Fhilly. 



PIIILLY. 
Oh Willy, aye I bless the grcive 
Where first I own'd my maiden lore. 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers abavt 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

WILLY. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to heac, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

PHILLY. 

As on the briar the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my WUly. 

WILLY. 

The milder sun and bluer sky. 
That crown my harvest cares wi' jaj. 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

PHILLY. 

Tlie little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery springs 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

WILLY. 

The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor. 
Upon the lips o' Pliilly. 

PHILLY. 

Tlie woodbine in the dewy weet. 
When evening shades in silence meet. 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

WILLY. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fools may lyne, and knaves may win, 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And that's my aue dear I'hilly. 

PHILLY. 

What's a' the Joys that gowd can gie t 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lail for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



<^niitfntrir ini' f ittlf. 

Tune — Lumps o' Pudding, 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair. 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, aud au auld iScottisb 
aaug. 




-!:^ 







MT NANNIE'S AWA. 



23« 



I wliHes claw the elbow o' troublesom 

thought ; 
But man is a sodirer, and life is a fanght : 
My niinh and good humour are coin in my 

pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 
A townniond o' trouble, should that be ray fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowtliers it a' : 
When at the blylhe end of our journey at 

last, [past ? 

Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road Le has 
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on 

her way : [gae : 

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade 
Come ease, or come travail : come pleasure, 

or pain, [again !" 

My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 



iu'sl Ijjm turn m f lius, mq lEati}. 

(373) 
Tune — Roy's Wife. 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well tliou know'st my aching heart. 
And canst tliou leave me thus for pity? 

Is tliis thy plighted, fond regard, 
Th'ds cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That lickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st tind those will iove thee dear — 
Eut not a love like mine, my Katy. 



/nr a* QHjat, anti a* tljak. 

Is tliere, for honest poverty. 

That liangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave we pass him by. 

We dare be poor for a' that I 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, (374) 

The man's the goud for a' that. 

W^hat tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wiue, 

A uiau's a man for a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
Rsft honest man, though e'er sae poor. 

Is king o' men for a' that. 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
The' hundreds worship at liis word. 

He's but a coof for a' that: 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
Tlie man of iudepeudent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, ai'.d a' that : 
But an honest man's aboon his migbt, 

Guid faith he niaunna fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
Tlie pith o' sense, and pride o' worthy 

Are higlier ranks tlian a' that. 

Then let us pray that cnme it may. 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the CATtb, 

May bear the gree, and a' tliat. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



Hi; SHJinnif's 5iraa. 

Tune— r/iere'ZZ never be peace, tfc. 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature 
arrays, [braes. 

And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green 
shaw ; 

But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they 

blaw, 
Tliey mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of 
the lawn, [uawn. 

The shejiherd to warn o' the grey-breaking 

And thou mellow mavis that haJi lbs 
night-fa'. 

Give over for pity — ^my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow acd 

grey. 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving 

snaw, 
Alaue can delight me — now Nannie's avu. 



1-- 



22 




ii!iiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinniii!iiiiiiiiiniiinni!iiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiniiiiniiiiii!:i!iiiiiiiin. 



^iS^ 



^^lIKillllllllllllllllllllllllilillilllllllllil 




240 



BUR^S'S POETICAL 'WORKS. 



Craigirkiirtt ISCmti, (375) 

Tune — Craiglehurn wood. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, 
And blytlic awakes the morrow; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading treea^ 
1 hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please. 
And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain woidd I my griefs imparl 

Yet dare na for your anger; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If 1 conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou shalt love anitheFj 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither. (376) 



^^ %rAi art tljnu llrrpiitg ijrt? 

Tune — Let me in this ane Nicjht. 

Oh lassie art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin', 1 would wit? 
For love has bo\ind me hand aud foot; 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

Oh let me in this ane right. 
This ane, ane, ane night ; 

For pity's sake this ane night. 
Oh rise and let me in, jo 1 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Mae star blinks thro' the driving sleet; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And "shield me frae the ram, jo. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cauM 
Of a' my gvief aud pain, jo. 

B.ejily to the Foregoing. 

On tell na me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' caidd disdain; 
Gae back the gait ye cam again, 
1 wiiiua let you ui, jo ! 

CHORUS. 

I tell you iiow tliis ane niglit, 
1'his ane, ane, tne night ; 

An<l ance for a' this ane night, 
] viiuia let you in, jo. 



The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. 
That round the pathless vvand'rer pours. 
Is nocht to what poor she endures^ 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 

Tlie sweetest flower th»t deck'd the mad. 
Now trodden like the vilest weed; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

The bird that charm'd his summer- d&y. 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting, woman say 

How aft her fate's the same, jo. V' 



Mlm5 In tl)r i^nnMark. 

Tune — Wliere'U honnie Ann lie ? or, Lo^> 
Erock Side. 

On stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A ha))less lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
Tliat I may catch thy melting art : 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join'^ 
Sic notes o' woe could waukeu. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care : 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair. 
Or my poor heart is broken 1 



^ Cljlarls bring SIl. 

Tune — Aye wakin O. 



Long, long the night. 
Heavy comes the morrow, 

Wliile my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care. 

Can I cease to languish. 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish t 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber even I dreaa. 

Every dream is horror. 



KH;i[;iiii;ii;i:i!iiniiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiniHniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiMii!iiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiim 



~iAf\y 



M^llllllllllllllllBll«lllllUlllllllllllnllllllllllllllllB~illl:llfll^lll!liii;lillll^»liIlalllllllll|||||llKlllillu|y^^ 





OH THIS IS NO MI AIN LASSIE. 



241 



ETew me, Pow'rs di^nne ! 

Oh ! in pity liear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Cliloris spare me ! 



Cljrir §imm n' liurrt ^Hijrtle. 

Tune — Humour* of Glen. 

Thetr ^ovss o' sweet myrtle let foreign 

lauds reckon, [perfume ; 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 

Far dearer tj me yon lone glen o' green 

breekan, [broom. 

Wi' the bura stealing under the lang yellow 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom 

bowers, [unseen : 

Where the Llue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 

flowers, [Jean. 

A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny 

vallies. 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 

proud palace, [and slave ! 

What are they ? — the haunt of the tyrant 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 

fountains. 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his 

roo'iutains, [his Jean ! 

Save love's willing fettert — the chains o' 



IXTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH BONa. 

Tune — John Anderson my Jo. 

Ho'W cruel are the parents^ 

Who riches only prize : 
And to the weaUhy booby. 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; — • 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 

Become a wretched wife. 

The rav'ning hawk pursuing. 

The trembling dove thus flie% 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinion tries: 
Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer. 

And drops beneath his feet. 



'Im3 na jirr Snnnit %[u &t mas 
mi] IRnin. 

TcNE — Laddie, lie near me, 
'TwAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did 
mind us, [o' kindness. 

'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glauc* 
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
tiueen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love the dearest I 
And thou'rt the angel tliat never can alter. 
Sooner the sua in lus motion would lultet. 



32ark pn f^nmp nf Cnstli; /asliinn. 

Tune — Beil tak the Wars. 
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashioi^ 

Round the wealthy, titled bride: 
But when compar'd with real passion. 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and ait: 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze. 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart: 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower k^ 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming. 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 
willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Avarice wo\dd deny 

His worshipp'd deity. 
And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptniet roD 



I Ijlis is nn mi} iEin f assii. 

Tune — This is no my ain Uoute, 

CHORUS. 

Oh this is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho' the lassie be ! 
Oh weel ken I my ain lassie. 

Kind love is in her ee. 



242 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I see a fonn, I see a face. 

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 

It wants, to me, the witching gract^ 

The kind love that's in her ee. 
Bhe's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
Aiid lang has had my heart in thrall; 
And aye it charms my very saul. 

The kind love that's in her ee. 
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
Tf> steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 

Wlien kind love is in the ee. 
It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 

I'ie kind love that's in her ee. 



spring {las Clati tjjt &xmi in §mii. 

(377) 

Now spring has clad the grove in green. 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
Wliile ilka thhig in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
Oh why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 
Tlie trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift— a silver dart ; 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Ueties the angler's art. 
My life was ance that careless stream. 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam. 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 
Tlie little flow'ret's peacefid lot. 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
W Inch, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth and joy consume. 
The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs. 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blythe lier dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye. 
An hctle reck'd I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 
Oh, 1 ad my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagn'd my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd kno'va ! 



The wretch .whase doom is, " hope nae mair," 
What tongue his woes can tell ! 

Witliin whase bosom, sa/e destiair, 
Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



i>^ SnnniB mas unit IRnsij Sripr. 

Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier. 

That blooms so far frae haunt o* man; 

And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear! 
It shaded frae the e'enm' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 

How pure amang the leaves sae green; 

But purer was the lover's vow 
They witnessed in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 

That crimson rose, hov/ sweet and fadr ; 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; 

And I the world, nor wi^j, nor scor». 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



/nrlnni mij Xan?, na l^nrafnrt nro, 

Tune — Let me in tins ane Night. 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near. ^ 

Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love, 

CH0RU3. 

Oh wert thou, love, but near me , 
But near, near, near me : 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, lov«. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joyj 
And shelter, shade, nor Lome have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — - 

Let me not break thy fai' nful hearti 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

But dreary tho' the moments flea. 
Oh let me think we yet shall meet I 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris slune, love. 



JESSY. 



243 



Sfi} fnr fi ts55 mV a Cirrljpr. 

Tune — Balinamona ora. 

A.WA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
Tlic slender bit beauty you grasp in your 

arms. 
Oh, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
Oh,gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



Tlien hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey 

for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then liey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice 

yellow guineas for me. 

four beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows. 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows : 
But the rapturous charm o' the bounie green 

kiiowes, [yowes. 

Ek spring they're new deckit wi bonnie white 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blest, [possest ; 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy when 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie 
imprest, [carest. 

The langer ye hae them, the mair they're 



fast Bail a ffirani ^^^^pr. 

Tune — The Lothian Lassie. 

1<AST May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen. 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men — 
The deuce gae wi'm to beheve me, believe 

me. 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spaK o' the darts o' my bonnie black een. 
Ami vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean — 
'J'he Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A well-stocked mailen, hirasel for the laird. 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd. 
But thought I might hae waur oifers, 

waur offers. 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or 
less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousia 
Bess (378), • fr^nld bear her, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! ! could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

22 



But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my tine tickle lover was there! 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen » warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink. 
Lest neibors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear 

lassie. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweety 
Gin she had recovered her hearin'. 

Arid how her new shoou fit her auld shachl't 
feet, [a-swearin'. 

But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 

He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife^ 
Or else I wad kill him wi, sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, tOt 

morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



/ragmrnt. 

Tune — The Caledonian Hunt't Beliglit. 

Why, why tell tby lover. 

Bliss he never must enjoy? 
"Why, why undeceive him. 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

Oh why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 

"WTiy, why wouldst thou cruel. 
Wake thy lover from his dream? 



§r55t|. (379) 



Here's a health to ane I loe dear! 
Here's a health to aue I loe dear ! [meet. 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover's 
And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hojie is denied : 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Theu aught in the world beside — Jessy} 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
Tor then I am lock't m thy arms — Jessy I 



% I 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



/ gwest \xr the dear anjrel smile, 
1 guess by tlie love rolliii"; ee; 

But why urj!;e the tender confession, 
'Gainst fortune's full cruel decree 
Jessy ! 



/airrist Jllaili m irnnn ianks. 

Tune — Rothiemunke. 

CHORUa. 

Fairest maid on Devon hanks. 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside. 

And smile as thou were wont to do. 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ? 
Oh, did not love exclaim " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithfu' lover so I" 

Tlieii come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, oh let me share ! 

And, by thy beauteous self I swear. 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 



ianhnntt Urll. (sso) 

Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass. 

Ay, and I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen. 

And mony full as braw ; 
Bnt for a modest gracefu' miei^ 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the ee, 
But without some better qualities. 

She's no the lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and tweet. 

And, what is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and n^t. 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart ; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'TIS this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul; 
For absolutely in my breast 

SIk leigus without control. 



Mi\ /atljrr mas a /arinrr. (381) 

Tune — The Weaver and his thuttle, O. 

AIy father was a farmer upon the Cerrici 
border, O, [order, O ; 

And carefully he bred me in decency and 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had 
ne'er a farthing, O ; 

For without an honest tnanly heart, no man 
was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world, my course I did 

determine, O ; 
The' to be rich was not my wish, yet to b* 

great was charming, O : 
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet 

my education, O ; 
Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my 

situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted 
fortune's favour, O ; 

Some cause unseen still stept between, to 
frustrate each endeavour, O. 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; some- 
times by friends forsaken, O; 

And when my hope was at the top, I still 
was worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with 
fortune's vain delusion, O, 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 
came to this conclusion, O — 

The past was bad, and the future hid; its 
good or ill untried, O ; 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and 
so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hojie, nor view had I, nor per- 
son to befriend me, O ; 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and 
labour to sustain me, O : 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my 
father bred me early, O ; 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match 
for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* 
life I'm doom'd to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlas- 
ting slumber, O. 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
breed me pain or sorrow, O ! 

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to- 
morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch 
in a palace, O, 

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, 
with all her wonted malice, O : 

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er caa 
make it farther, O ; 

But, as daily bread is all I ceed, I do not 
much regard her, O. 



HER FLOWING L0CK3. 



2 i 



When sometimes by ray labour I earn a 

little moiiy, O, 
Some uiiforseen misfortune comeg gen'rally 

upon me, O : 
Jfisckance, mistake, or by neglect, or my 

good-natur'd folly, O ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll 

ne'er be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with 

uuremitting ardour, O, 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 

your view the farther, O : 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 

to adore you, O, 
A. cheerful honest-hearted clowu I will prefer 

before you, O. 



i^p in \\}t jllorning rarlij. 

Tune — Cold Mows the Wind. 

CHORUS. 

Up in the morning's no for me. 

Up in the morning early : 
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Canld blaws the wind frae east to west. 

The drift is driving sairly; 
Sae loud and shrill 1 hear the blast, 

I'm sure its wuitei- fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

Aiid laiig's the night frae e'en to mom — 
I'm aui'e it's winter fairly. 



irti, llm Diisiii MlWn. 

TvNB— The Dusty Miller. 

Hey, the dusty miller. 

And his dusty coat ; 

He wdl win a shilling. 

Or he spend a groat. 

Dusty was the Coat, 

Dust\ was the colour. 
Dusty was the kiss 

That 1 got frae the millet; 

Hey, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck— 
nU^ the dusty peck. 

Brings the dusty silkr; 
I wad gie my coatie 
for the dusty miller. 



Slnbill. (382) 
Tone — Bainty Davie. 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' whatiia style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin*; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin I 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was tive-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win* 
Blew hansel in on Robiu. 

The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo scho, wha lives will see the prooC 
This waly boy will be nae coof ; 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma*. 
But aye a heart aboon them a'; 
He'll be a credit till us a' — 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three male nineii 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin'. 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 



aftn Sflis nf ?^^aitrljlinp. (3S3) 

In Jlauchline there dwells six proper young 

belles, [hood a'. 

The pride of the place and its neighbour- 

Their carriage and dress, a stranger would 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a*. 

Miss Miller is fine, JMiss IMarkland's divini; 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Bettj 

is braw, [Jlorton ; 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Mis» 

But Armour's the jewel for me o' th^a 

»'. (384) 



2!tr /Intuing Xnrks. (sss) 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing; 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling. 

And round that neck entwine her! 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew. 
Oh, T^'hat a feast her bonnie mou't 
Her cheeks a niair celestial hue, 

A crimscu still divmer. 



240 



BUEXS'S POETICAL TVOEKS. 



t\}t Inn! nf <^lt IRillir. (386) 

Tune — SLiwnboy. 
JTe sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
Tour thrifty old mother has scarce such 
another 

To sit m that honoured station. 
I've little tc say, but only to pray, 

A 3 praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A. prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

T s seldom her favourite passion. 
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
tide. 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

\'\Tiose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward 
contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound. 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



(fjjE Saijfnl tl'ilinrapt. 

Tune — Maggy Lauder. 
I MARRIED with a scolding wife. 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me weary of my life. 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke^ 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 
We lived full one-and-twenty years, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she stejr'd. 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would 1 could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter. 
Of all the women in the world, 

1 never could come at her. 
Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her; 
But sure her soul is not in hell. 

The deil would ne'er abide her ! 
I rather think she is aloft. 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why ? — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder 1 



(J^^llJjjarE ti&iiiitt ^pt? (386) 

TuME — Bonnie Dundee. 
0, WHARE did you get that hauver meal ban- 
nock ? 
Oh silly blind body, oh dinua ye see ? 



I gat it frae a brisk ycung sodger laddie^ 

Between Saint Johnston aud bomiie Dtub 
dee. 
Oh, gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie. 

And send him safe hame to his babie and 
me ! 
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie. 

My blessia's upon thy bonnie ee-bree ! 
Thy smiles are sae Uke my blythe sodgei 
laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to mel 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks. 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine. 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie deai 



fflira mas a f ass. 

Tune — Duncan Davison. 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin; 
There was a lad that foUow'd her. 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
Tlie moor was driegh, aud Jleg was skeiglx 

Her favour Duncan could ua win ; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock, 

And aye she shook the temper-pin. 
As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green. 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks. 

And aye she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith 

That 'Meg should be a bride the morn, 
Tlien Meg took up her spinnin' graith. 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 
We'll big a house — a wee, wee house. 

And we will live like king aud queen, 
Sae blythe and merry we \n\[ be 

When ye set by tne wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may fight and no be slain; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass. 

And aye be welcome back again. 



f anWailii, Cnnnt tliP f araii! 

Tune — Hey tuttie, taitie. 

Landlady, count the lawii^ 

The day is near the dawin; 

Ye're a' blind drunk, boys. 

And I'm but jolly fou. 

Hey tuttie, taitie. 

How tuttie, taitie — 

'\A'ha's fou now? 







FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CAEE. 



24? 



Cog, an y* were aye fou. 
Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
I wai sit and sing- to you. 
If ye were aye foiu 

Wcel may ye a' be ! 
Dl may we ne\er see ! 
God bless the king, bovB, 
Ami the compauiei 



matllk* mnnritt* %^i!ii?. 

Tune — Rattlin' roarin' IVillie. 

Oh, rattUn' roarin' Willie, 

Oh, lie held to the fair. 
And for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some other ware; 
But parting wi' his fiddle. 

The saut tear blin't his eej 
And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome haiue to me ! 

Oh "Willie, come sell your fiddle. 

Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
Oh AMllie, come sell your fiddle^ 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl would think I was mad; 
For mony a rantin' diy 

My fiddle aud I hae had. 

Aa I cam by Crochallan, 

I canndy keekit ben — 
Ratthu' roarin' Will e 

^Vas sitting at y. u board en' — 
Sitting at yon boaid lu'. 

And amang guid companie; 
Kattliii roarmg' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me I 



liinnirfs a l^lrasant QJinu. 

Tune — Aye waukin O. 

Simmer's a pleasant time. 
Flowers of every colour ; 

The water rins o'er the heugh, 
4.ud I long for my true lover. 

Aye waukin O, 

\\'aukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get naue 

For tliiukiug ou my deaiia 

When I sleep I dream. 
When I wauk I'm eerie : 

Qeep I can get nane 
For tkLakiiig ou my dearie. 



Lanely night comes on, 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

I think on ray boiinie lad. 
And bleer my een wi' greetin'. 



35!ti tnm sljp'3 liitt a f asslp ijrt. 

Tune — Lady Badinscoth's Reel. 
My love she's but a lassie yet. 

My love she's but a lassie yet. 
We'll let her stand a year or twa. 
She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, 0, 

I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd. 
But he may say he's bought her, O I 
Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the tiddler's wife. 
And could na preach for t-liiiiking o't 



€^t (Captain's f aiJij. 

Tune— O Mount and Go 

CHORUS. 

Oh mount and go. 

Mount and make you readjc 

Oh mount and go. 

And be the captain's lady; 
When the drums do beat. 

And the cannons rattle. 
Thou shalt sit in state. 

And see thy love in battle. 
When the vanquish'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go. 

And in love enjoy it. 



/irst mjirn 3t!aggij mas mq fan, 

TvNB—JFhistle o'er the lave o't. 

First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven I thought was in her air; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd- 

Whistld o'er the lave o'k 



248 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
1 care na by how few may see — 

Whistle o'er tlie lave o't. 
Wha I wisli were maggot's meat 
Disird up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maua seet — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



flan's a f^nntji iit tjils (fi^itq. 

To a Gaelic Air. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity 
That he frae our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel favoured 
and a'. 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a*. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 
His fecket is white as the new-driveu 
snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like 
the slae. 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle 
us a'. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been 

courtiri' ; [and braw ; 

Weel-featured.weel-tocher'd.weel-mounted, 

But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang 

till her. 

The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg wi' the mailea that fain wad 

a-haen liim ; [ha' ; 

And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters 

his fancy — [of a'. 

Bui the laddie's dear seV he Iocs dearest 



ii^ m\2 niij WUi sljf Dang ms. 

Tune — My wife she Dang me. 

() AYE my wife she dang me, 
, And aft my wife did bang me. 
It ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent. 

And fool I was I married ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 
AVhen a' my days are done, man; 

My pains o' hell on earth are past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboou, man. 



Oh aye my wife she dang me. 
And aft my wife did bang r>e. 

If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergau^ p& 



^ppif 5liiait. 

TvsE— My Eppie 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie I 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
By love, and by beauty. 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie, 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exUe me. 
Dishonour defile me 
If e'er I beguile thee. 

My Eppie Ad*ir 1 



OfljB SattlE nf l!irrv:ff-3}Iair. 

Tune — Cameronion Bant. 

" Oh cam ye here the figli^' +o shun. 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, Mian ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-nio.'-, 

And did the battle see, niai ?" 
" I saw the battle, sair and tona;h. 
And reekin' red ran mony a sl-i»ugh, 
]\ly heart, for fear, gaed sough ^or soiigl' 
To hear the th ids, and see the/i-.-ds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms th-rt, mi9 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cock'*'^*';. 
To meet them were na slaw, msui •. 
They rush'd and push'd, and bluia t Ktgiwiii'd, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man ; 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty mile* 
They hack'd and hash'd while broa-^wordt 

clash'd. 
And thro' they dash'd,and hew'd,aud Jfcwjh'd, 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philabegs. 
And skyrin tartan trews, man; 

When ill the teeth they dar'd our WW^ 
And covenant wue blues, man ; 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE MART. 



2i» 



In lines exteni^ed lang and large. 
When bayonets opposed the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the chargfe, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew bhtdes o' death, till, out o' breath. 
They fled like frighted doos, man." 

" Oh how diel, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the North, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horseman back to Forth, man; 
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man 1" 

' My sister Kate cam up the gste 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels ma 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Tlieir left-hand general had nae skill. 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neibor's blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o, brose — all crying woes ; 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Higliland clans, man: 

L fear my Lord Panmure is slain. 
Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 

But mony bade the world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' kueU, 

Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell. 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man." 



^■Iir 2Jiglilani Wihm's f amrnt. (383) 

Oh ! I am cv.,me to the low couutri^ 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse. 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland hilla^ 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye^ 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high. 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three scr re o' yowea, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Gkipping on yon bonnie kuowes. 

And casting woo' to me. 



I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine ; 
For Donald was the brawest lad. 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free ; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then, 

For Scotland and for me. 

Their waefu' fate what need I tell ? 

Right to the wrang did yield : 
My Donald and his country fell 

Upon Cullodeu's field. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-he ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as mc. 



Tune — KilUecrankie. 

Whaee hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Where hae ye been sae brankie, O ? 
Oh, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 
An ye had been whare 1 hae been. 

Ye wad nae been sae cantie, O ; 
An ye had seen what I hae seen. 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O; 
But I met the devil and Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O, 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. 

And Clavers got a clankie, O ; 
Or I had fed an Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, Ov 



l!irni?l HrnpE's %um 3i!ar^ 

Tune — The Ruffian's Rant. 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dav\iti in the sky, 
We drank a health to I onnie Maiy. 
Theniel Menzie s boi.nie Mary, 

Theniel ^lenzie's bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissiu' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And aye they dimpl't wi' a smile. 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 



250 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



We lap and danced the lee lang day. 
Till piper lads were wae and weary: 

But Charlie gat the spring to pay, 
Tor kissiu' Tl.fiuiel's bonuie Mary. 



Air — Carron Side. 

Frae the friends and laud I love 

Driv'u by fortune' felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove. 

Never raair to taste deligl t ; 
Never luair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care: 
When remerabrauce wracks the mind. 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mii-k appear, 

L)esert ilka blooming shore. 
Till the fates nae mair severe. 

Friendship, love, and peace restore; 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head. 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilk loyal bonnie lad 

Cross tlie seas and wm his ain. 



&!i\\i is tjip JDai;. 

Tune — Guidwife, Count the Lawin. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light. 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wme's the rising sun. 

Then guidwife, count the lawin, 
Tlie lawin, the lawin ; 
Then guidwife, count the lawin. 
And bring a coggie mair ; 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And simple folk maun fight and feu; 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

My coggie is a haly pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An ye drink but deep ye'U tiud him out. 



Clji f itiirr 31Inrn. 

Tune — To a Highland air. 

Thb tither morn, when I forlorn 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 
Beside me, gam thr gloaming. 



But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig. 

And dawtingly dii' rheer me. 
When I, what reck, did least expec'. 

To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, a thought ajee, 

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd ms; 
And I, I wat, wi' fainness grat, 

While in his grips he prcss'd me. 
Deil tak the war ! 1 late and air, 

Hae wish'd since Jock departed; 
But now as glad I'm wi my lad. 

As short syue broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen. 

When a' were blythe and merry, 
I car'd na by, sae sad was I, 

In absence o' my dearie. 
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest, 

I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 
At kirk and fair, I'se aye be ther?. 

And be as canty'a ouy. 



iTDniE S3nat m? n'rr in Cfjarlii. 

Tune — O'er the Boater to Charlie. 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er. 
Come boat rae o'er to Charlie ; 

I'll gie John Ross another bawbee. 
To boat me o er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea. 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and fn 
And hve or die wi' Charlie. 

I loe weel my Charlie's name 
The' some there be abhor iiim : 

But oh, to see auld Nick gaim hame. 
And Charlie's face before him ! 

I swear and vow by moon and star^ 
And sun that shines so early. 

If 1 had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for CharUe. 



St 13 na, fran, tljii ffinnnir Jfm. 

Tune — The Maid's ComplniiJt. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy graO» 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee. 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me. 

Still dearer ia thy mind. 




IIIHillllllllllllllllUI{!l(llIllllllllllli|ii„,,,,i|||||l||||||l|||||||||M||||i| iriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiii 



^ c^-#~- 




AS I WAS A-WANDERIXO. 



251 



Nae niair nn^ren'rcras trish T hae. 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
TLan if I canna mak thee sae. 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall gin 

Bnt happiness to thee : 
And as wi' tliee I'd wish to Hje, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



S liai a ajlifj n' nnj litt. (389) 

Tujjs — Naebody. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain — 

I'll partake wi' naebody; 
I'll tiik cnckolJ frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to naebody, 
I hae a penny to spend. 

There — thanks to naebody; 
I hae naethinjr to lend, 

I'll borrow frae naebody, 
I am naebody's lord — 

I'll be slave to naebody; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for naebody; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



^itljslialE's tlirlrniitp ^mf. 

The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border. 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagles towars^ 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagles fair. 

For their abode they chuse it ; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 
Tho' stars in skies may disappear. 

And angry tempests gather. 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather: 
The weary night o' care and grief 

ilay hae a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief— 

rareweel our night o' sorrow 1 



aUti f nllirr faiMf. 

TtNE— TAe Collier Laddie. 

Where live ye, my bonnie lass? 

And tell me what they ca' ye ; 
My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 

Aud I follow the Collier Laddie. 



My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 

See you not yon hills and dales, 
The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine^ 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine^ 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

Ye shall gang in gay attire, 

M'eel buskit up sae gaudy ; 
And ane to wait on every hand. 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddia, 
And ane to wait on every hand. 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 
Tho' ye had a' the snn shines on. 

And the earth conceals sae lowly; 
I wad turn my back on you and it a', 
[ And embrace my Collier Laddie. 
I wad turn my back on yon and it a'. 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day. 
And spen 't at night fu' brawlie; 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie, 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, 
Aud lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 

Luve'for luve is the bargain for me, 
Tiio' the wee cot-house should hand me; 

And the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my Collier laddie. 

And the world before me to win my bread, 
Aud fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 



23 



l5 % mas a-U^anipring. 

Tw-E—Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh. 
As I was a- wandering ane midsummer e'eniu* 
The pipers and youngsters were making 
their game ; 
Amang thera 1 sjned my faithless fausc lover. 
Which bled a' t'le wounds o' my dolour 
again. 

Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure 

gae wi' him ; [piaia. 

I may be distress'd, but I winna com- 

I flatter my fancy I may get anither. 

My heart it shall never be broken f« 

ane. 

I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin'. 
The tears trickled down hke the hail aud 
the rain ; 

Had [ na got greetin', my heart wad a brokei^. 
For oh ! love forsakeu'a a tormeutmg pain. 



2d2 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Althoiisrh he has left me for ^eed o' the 

siller, 
I (liniia envy him the {jains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 
Thau ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 



^i larnliitES hi] 3lmi, 

Tune — Ye Jacobites by Name. 
TE.Tacobitesby name, give an ear.giveanear; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; 
Ye J acobites by name. 

Your fautes I will proclaim, 

Your doctrines 1 mauu blamfr— 
You shall hear. 
What is right and what is wrang, by the law, 
by the law ? [law ? 

What is riglit and what is wrang by the 
What is right and what is wraug? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd 
afar ? 
WTiat makes heroic strife, fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife. 
Or hunt a jiarent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in 
the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone. 
Adore the rising sun. 
And leave a niau undone 
To his fate. 



t&^ fflarij 5lnn. 

Tune — Cravjtown's growing. 

On, lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle 

Tra'; 

Slic saw three honnie boys playing at the ba' ; 

The youngest he was the flower amang them 

a' — [yet. 

My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' 

Oh father ! oh father I an ye think it fit. 
We'll send him a year to the college vet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat. 
And that will let them kea he's to marry 
yet. 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew. 

Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 

And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it 

grew : [yet. 

For the lily in the bud will be bouuier 



Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of 
an aik ; [make^ 

Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was it : 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake. 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane when the leaves thej 

were green. 
And the days are awa that we hac seen ; 
But far better days I trust wOl come iigain^ 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's 

growin' yet. 



Tune — Charlie Gordon's Welcome Ilamt. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
But what is the north and its Highland* 
to me? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest. 
That happy my dreams and my sluuiben 
may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I loe best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



Snrkrifs tarn ilji; ^^arting 'Wm. 

Tune — Jockey's taen the Parting KitiL 

Jockey's taen the parting kiss, 

O'er the mountains lie is gane ; 
And within him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remaiiL 
Spare my hive, ye winds that blaw. 

Flashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw. 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain 

When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee^ 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 

Sweetly blythe his waukening bel 
He will think on her he loves, 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves. 

Jockey's heart is still at bame: 



CfiB dTarlrs n' Siisait 

Tune — Hey ca' thr(f 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckhavea, 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leveo. 



SiE FAR AWA. 



253 



He}', ca' tliro', ca' thro*. 
For we hae niickle ado; 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
For we hae niickle ado. 

We hae tales to tell, 

And we hae saiigs to sing ; 
We hae pennies to spend. 

And we hae pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days. 

And them that come behin'. 
Let them do the like, 

Aud spend the gear they win. 



f aliil dJnlif. 

Tune — The Ruffian's Rant 

A.' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When tliey gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in and tak a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky 1 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ! 
I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
The best ou a' the shore o' Bucky. 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



^nnitg Samip, 1{k\h nf a' tijj ^,31aiii. 

luNE — 27ie Carlin o' the Glen. 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain; 
Thio' a' our lasses he did rove. 
And reigned resistless king of love: 
But now wi' sighs and starting tears. 
He strays amang the woods and briers; 
Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves. 

I wha sae late did range and rove. 
And chang'd with every moon my love, 
1 little thought the time was near. 
Repentance 1 should buy sae dear: 
The slighted maids my torment see^ 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
W hile she, my cruel, scoriifu' fair, 
Forbids lue e'er to see her mair I 



^rnnij's a' mat, pnnr Sntrif. 

Tune — Cowing throuyh the Ryt, 

Coming through the rye, poor body. 

Coming through the rye. 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 
Coming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie^ 

Coming through tlie rye. 
Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 
Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 
Need the world ken ? 



Cljp CarJiiii' n't. 

Tone — Salt-Jish and Dumplingt 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo'. 

To make a wat to Johnny o't; 
For Johnny is ray only jo, 
I loe him best of ony yet. 

The cardiii' o't, the spinnin' o't. 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the limn o't 
For though his locks be lyart grey. 

And though his brow be beld aboon ' 
Yet I hae seen him on a day. 
The pride of a' the parisbeo. 



€n tljrp, Innrii 31itli. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plaint. 
Where late wi' careless thought 1 rang'd. 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe. 
To thee 1 bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I 



lap far 3ma. 

Tune — Dalkeith Maiden Bridge. 

On, sad and heavy should I part. 
But for lier sake sae far awa ; 

Unknowing what ray way raay thwart 
My native land sae far awa. 







hmw 




2at 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou tliat of a* tMnsrs Maker art, 
That forin'd this fair sae far awa, 

Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 
At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert. 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal n\y bosom's smart, 

AVhile, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

1 feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Thau her's, the fair sae far awa. 



Wu is rail 2?rart. 

Tune — Wae is my Heart. 

Wae is ray heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
lang, lang-, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, 
Aud the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in 
my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I 
loved : [proved ; 

Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I 

But this bruised heart that now bleeds in 
my breast, 

I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

Oh, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream, and you bonnie castle- 
green ; [me. 
For there he is wand'ring, and musing on 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee. 



Mmang tljB Irrrs. 

Tune — The King of France, he racle a Race. 

Am/.ng the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were liingiiig, O, 
Auld Caltdon drew out her drone. 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels. 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squcels. 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 

Their capon craws and queer ha, ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary, O. 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd^ 

A prisoner aughteen year awa. 
He fjr'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



U\}t 2jigl]lan!i tMit. 

TvN-E—Iflhou'U Play me Fair Pfajd 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie^ 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie; 
His royal heart was tirm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie. 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall taks^ 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
Ere aught thy manly courage shaJc^ 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go I for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 
And for your lawful king his crown, 

Bouuie Higlilaud laddie. 



SJannnrks n' 23arbii. 

Tune — The Killogie. 

Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the Highlandmanli 

Bannocks o' barley. 
"VV'ha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley! 

Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley! 
Wha in his wae-days 

AV'ere loyal to Charlie?— 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley? 



Slnliiii lljnrE h iairit, 

CHORUS. 

Robin shure in hairst, 

I shure wi' him; 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 





"-^J^^c-^ Q-' 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O'NITH. 



253 



I ^ed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden ; 
At his (laddie's jett, 

Wha met me but Robin P 
Was na Robin bauUl, 

Though I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick. 

And me the eller's dochter? 
Robin promised me 

A' my wint* vittle ; 
Rent haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 



Imrrtrst 3llai|. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As tliy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 
Proof o' shot to birth or money. 
Not the wealthy but the bonnie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
la love's silken baud can bind it. 



Cljp tm nf (Srrlrfrrliaii. 

Tune — JacJcy Latin. 

ixA I ye me, oh gat ye me, 

• Oh gat ye me wi' naethin^ 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A Inch iiouse and a laigh ane^ 
A' forbye my bonnie sel'. 

The lass of Ecclefechan, 

Oh baud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

Oh baud your tongue and januier; 
I held the gate till you I met. 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my wliistle and my sang', 

I tint my peace and pleasure : 
But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 

Wad airt me to my treasure. 



Kmf5 a IBnttlE anit an Unnrst /rirn!r. 

Here's a bottle and au honest friend ! 

Wha wad ye wish for mair. man ? 
W ha kens, before his life n ay end, 

W'hat his share may be o' c.ire, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly. 

And use them as ye ought, man :^ 
Believe me, happiness is shy. 

And eom«s ua aye when sought, ; 



(^n a ^.Mniigtaan. 



As I was & wa.id'riiig ane morning in spring, 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly t« 

sing ; 
And as he was singing these words, he did say. 
There's nae life like the ploughman's in the 

month o' sweet Jlay. 

The lav'rock iu the morning she'll rise fr&a 
her nest, [breast. 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 

And wi' the merry ploughman slic'll whistle 
and sing, [again 

And at uight she'll return to her nest back 



Tune— r/ie JFeaiy Pttiid o' Tow. 

The weary pnnd, the weary puud. 

The weary puiid o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin Iver tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As guid as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that. 

Is ane poor pund o' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyout the ingle lowe. 
And aye she took the tither soa^ 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow 1 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 
Gaed foremost o'er the kuowe ; 

And ere I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 



23^ 



^t f ahiiiM hii tljE l3.TO!t5 n 3JIHIj. ■ 

Tune — Up and waitr them a'. 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstoues hae the guidiii' j*t, 

Ye turncoat whigs, awa. 



'39a 



2^8 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The day he stiide his country's friend. 
Or gied her fats a claw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan. 
That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's hoast ? 

like him there is na twa, Jamie; 
There's no a callant tents the kye. 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark, here's Whistlehirck, 
Lang may his whistle hlaw, Jamie; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue. 
And we'll be Johustones a', Jamie. 



(!F|iigrnni3, ku 



<!5ii Caiitaiii tprnsj, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. (391) 

The Be-frA got notice that Grose was 

a-dyiiig, [flying; 

80 whip ! at the summons, old Satin came 
But when he approach'd where poor Francis 

lay moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden »- 

groaning (392), 

Astonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, "By 

I'll want 'im, ere 1 take such a damnable load,' 



Oh death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
Whom we this day lament, 

We freely wad excliang'd the wife^ 
And a' been weel content. 

E'en as he is, cauld in his grafif. 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Tak thou the carlin's circase aff, 

Thou'se get the saul tD boot. 



Snutjirr nn Ijis iXJihiii. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When deprived of her husband she loved so 

well, [show'd her. 

In respect for Ihe love and affection he 
She rediic'd him to dust, and she drank off 

the pott der. 



But Queen Netherplace, of a different coiui 
plexion, [tion, 

TMien call'd on to order the fun'ral direc- 

Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender 
pretence, [expense ! 

Not to show her respect, but — to save the 



iin (SljiIjInstuiiB's 
Qfranslatinns nf Jtlartial's (IJpigrains. 

(393) 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors. 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan — proceed no 

further ; 
Twas laurelled Martial roaring murtherl 



^n Hiss 3 Irnit, nf 5li|r. 

On ! had each Scot of ancient times. 
Been Jeany Scott, as thou an ; 
The bravest heart on English gruundt 
Had yielded hke a coward. 



^n an gllitrralE fpntlrman, 

WHO HAD A FINE LIBRARY. 

Free through the leaves, ye maggots, make 

your windings ; [biudu'gs ! 

But for the owner's sake, oh spare ths 



UNDERTHE PICTURE OP MISS BURNS, (394) 

Cease, ye prudes, your ennous railings^ 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing- 
Had a woman ever less ? 



"J^rittrn nn a Xfinimui nf tljf fas 

AT CARRON. 

We cam na here to view your works 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell. 

It may be nae surprise : 

But whan we tirled at your door. 
Your porter dought na hear us; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts comft 
Your billy Satan sair us I 



A 



ON THE EARL OF • • • • 257 

VSxiWn nit s l^nt nf (SI ass ®Iie ialmn f rHgnu antr tornaut. 



IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. (395) 

Ask why God made the gem so small. 
And wliy so huge the granite ? 

Because GoJ meant mankind should set 
The higher vakie on it. 



/ragtnritt. (396) 

Thk blaclc-headed eagle 

Am keen as a beagle, 
He hunted owre height and owre howe ; 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



(!i)ii Snriailitij sljaran Ijini at fsarrnarq. 

(397) 

Whoe'er he be that sojourni here, 

I pity much his case. 
Unless he come to wait upon 

ITie Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride. 
And Highland scab and hunger; 

If providence has sent me here, 
"IVas surely in his auger. 



iiglflanti iaspitalittt. (398) 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come. 

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more. 
Than just a Highland welcome 



Tints Kn SHiss IrmblB. 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 



^u. t)jf Hirk at f araingtnn. 

A CAULD day December blew, 
A cauld kirk, and in't but few, 
A caulder minister never spak — 
They'll a' be warm ere 1 come back. 



(399) 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tearc: 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



^n a €jx\m |^arsan*3 f nnki. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



tu faring lljp Srantifnl .f rat 



OF THE EARL OP 



What dost thou in that mansion fair?—' 

Flit, * * * * and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cav^ 
The picture of thy mind ! 



^n t!iE earl isf • • • • 

No Stewart art thou, • • • ♦ 
The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fooli, 
Not one of them a knave. 

On the Same. 

Bright ran thy line, oh ♦ • • • 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way. 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, 

on THE AUTHOR BEING THREATBN«» 
WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, • ♦ • * 

In quiet let me Uve : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand. 

For thou hast none to givfc 



S58 3URNS'S POETICAL WOAKSj. 



WHO IN coMPA^^r engrossed the conters\tiox 

WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast. 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen ; 

An insect is still but an insect at most, 
Tko' it crawl on the curl of a Queen I 



ON THE OCCASION OP A NATIONA. 
THANKSGIVING FOR A NAVAL VICTORY 

Ye hyTJOcritcs ! are these your pranks ? — 
To murder men, and gie God thanks ! 
For shame ! gie o'er, proceed no further^ 
God won't accept your thanks for murther ! 



^^ f rnB f nijal latiiiri (400) 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long : 
From envy and hatredyour corps is exempt; 
But where is your shield from the darts & 
contempt ? 



f iisrriptinn nn a §M± 

There's death in the cup — sae beware? 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching I 



(IFriraipnrB nn Mr. Ip?. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or 
not. 
And cookery the first in the nation ; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and 
wit, 
Ii proof to all other temptation. 



®n 31Ir. Ipf, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OP PORTER. 

Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 



In politics if thou would'st mix, 
Aud mean thy fortunes be. 

Bear this in mind : — be deaf and blind^ 
Let great folks hear and see. 



'JXIrittrn in a f a&ij's |^nrkrt-Snnk. 

Grant me, indulgeni Heav'n, that I maj 
live, [S've, 

To see the miscreants feel the pains they 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air. 
Till slave and despot be but things which 
were. 



®n f nljn faiilnr. (402) 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying. 
Through frosty hills the journey ]ay« 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work. 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

ril pay you like my master. 



Cn 3Kiss /nntrnrllF, 

OK SEEING her IN A FAVOnBIiri 
CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Iroves and graces all rejected, 
Tten indeed thou'd'st act a part. 



GBACES BEFORE MEAT. 



259 



f !ri! fnast. (403) 

(nsi'EAD of a song, lioys, I'll give you a 

toast — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelth 

that we lost ! — 
That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, 

that we found ; 
For their fame it shall last while the world 

goes round. [King! 

The next in succession, I'll give you — the 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 

swing ; [tution, 

And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with politics not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd : 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first 

trial. 



feisraira Ininrrsal, 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW. (404) 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer- 
ing [hearing, 
'Gainst poor excisemen ? give the cause a 
What are your landlords' rent-rolls ? teazing 
ledgers : [mighty gangers : 
What premiers — what ? even monarchs' 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly 

wise tnen ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen ? 



f n Dr. 3JIaitirell, 

OM MISS JESSY STAIG'S KECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny — 
You save fair Jessy from the grave I 

An angel could not die. 



^n ^MSij Xriuars, (405) 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's burning sun ; 
No savage e'er could rend my hear^ 

As, Jessy, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in uiin^ 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



Toast to the Same. (406) 

Fill me with the rosy wine. 
Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
Give the poet's darling flam^ 
Lovely Jessy be the name; 
Then thou mayest freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast 



Epitaph on the Same. (407) 

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turn death's dart aside? 

It is not purity and worth. 
Else Jessy had not died. 



To the Savi9. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth. 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth. 

For Jessy did not die. 



(^rarrs bfm ^Im. 

Some hae meat and canna eat. 
And some would eat that want it, 

But we hae meat, and we can eat, 
Sae let the Lord be tkankit. 



Oh Thou, who kindly dost proviae 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide^ 

For all thy goodness lent : 

And, if it please Thee, heavenly guide. 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied. 

Lord, bleis us with content ! Amea 



Oh Thou, in whom we live and more 

Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
Tliy goodness constantly we prove. 

And grateful would adore 
And if it please thee, Pow'r above. 

Still grant us, with such store, 
I'be friend we trust, the fair we knf^ 

And we desire no more. 



2M 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



(!E|iitn|ili3. 



Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity stams. 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here he the loving hushand's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
Tlie pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd uo human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

"Per ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 
aide." (408) 



^n a SJrnprrkt ^mnitii Ipirf. 

A.S father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd. 
The devil rul'd the woman 



^n a Crlrbratti IRnling Bht. 

Here souter Hood in death does sleep — 

To hell, if he's gane thither. 
Satan, gie him the gear to keep 

He'll hand it weel thegither. 



^n a IHnlsi} f^nlratir. (409) 

Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

Oh Death, it's my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

lato thy dark dominion 1 



(^n mt Inljnnii. (4io) 

niC .TACET WEE JOHNNY. 

Whoe'er vhon art, oh reader, know, 
I'hat death has murdcr'd Johimyl 

And here his body lies fu' low— 
For 8<iul he ne'er had ouy. 



(!l)n f nljn Dinif. 

INNKEEPER, MAUCHUKXL 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeou; 
What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to ken. 
To some other warl' 
Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had mme I 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento motif 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the joy of his soul. 

And port was celestial glory. 



Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd namel' 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



^n a /rirnil. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and gmde of youth ; 

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd ; 
If there's another world, he hves in bliss ; 
K there is none, he made the best of this. 



^nt &uh iarailtnn. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavm sleept) 
WTiom cantmg wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be. 
May I be sav'd or damn'd 1 



Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave. 
That the very worms damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
" And his heart is rank poiaoo,'* 

Another replies. 



ON A PICTUEE. 



S6S 



^n H Irljmilmashr 



I!f CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes. 
Oh Satan, when ye tak him, 

Gie him the schoolin' of your weans ; 
For clever deils he'll mak 'em ! 



(!D^ Mt, W. Crnirksljanks. 

Honest Will's to Heaven gane. 
And mony shall lament him ; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
lit English uane e'er keut them. 



/iir William Wml 

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain. 
For few sic feasts you've gotten ; 

You've got a prize o' Willie's heart. 
For deil a bit o't's rotteu. 



Stop thief ! dame Nature cried to Death, 
As Willie drew his latest breath ; 
You have ray choicest model taea 
How sUaii 1 make a fool again? 

On the Same. 

Best gently, turf, upon his breast, 
His chicken heart's so tender ; — 
But rear huge castles on his head. 
His akoll wiU prop them uudei. 



(^u dFahriil IRirlarlrsns, 

BREWER, DUMFRIES. (409) 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct. 
And empty all his barrels ; 

He's blest — if as he brew'd he drink- 
In upright honest morals. 



■WRITER, DUMFRIES. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest maa! 
Cheat him, devil, if you can. 



d^n tjiE ^,%rt'3 iangljtrr. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose. 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are grier'd. 
This consolation's given — 

She's from a world of woe reliev'd. 
And blooms a rose in heaven. 



representing Jacob's dream. 

Dear , I'll gie you some advio«, 

You'll tak it no uncivil : 
You shouldiia pauit at angels mair. 

But try and paint the d — L 

To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
Wi' auld Nick there's less dangGf { 

You'll easy draw a weel-kent face. 
But no aae weel a strauger. 




1^ iiiiaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiu 



^-fa 



mw>€ 





€nmBpnkmt af %mm. 



HO. ■ 

n) MR JOHN ^MURDOCH, SCHOOL. 
MASrKR, 

BTAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

Lochlsu, \hlh January, 1783. 
Dear Sir. — A« I have an opportunity of 
sendincf you a letter without putting you to 
that expense which any production of mine 
would but ill repay, I embrace it with plea- 
»urc, to tell you that I have not for{;otteii, 
nor ever will forget, the many obligations I 
lie under to your kindness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the 
pains of an indulgent father and a masterly 
teacher, and I wish I could gratify your 
curiosity with such a recital as you would be 
pleaded with ; but that is what I am afraid 
will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept 
pretty clear of vicious habits, and, in this 
respect, 1 Uope my conduct will not disgrace 
the education I have gotten ; but, as a man 
uf the world, 1 am most miserably delicieat. 



One would have thou^t that, bred as I hava 
been, under a father, who has figured pretty 
well as un /loiiime des affaires, I might have 
been what the world calls a pushing, active 
fellow ; but to tell you the truth, Sir, there 
is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem 
to be one sejit into the world to see and olv- 
serve ; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if fhere 
be any thing original about hira, which sfeowB 
me human nature in a different light from 
any thing I have seen before. In short, the 
joy of my heart is to " study mea, their 
manners, and their ways ;" and for this dar- 
ling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other 
consideration. I am quite indolent about 
those great concerns that set the bustling', 
busy sons of care agog ; and if 1 have to an- 
swer for the present hour, I am very easy 
with regard to any thing further. Even the 
last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the 
wretched does nor much terrify me : I know 
that even then, my talent for what country 
folks call a " sensible crack," when once it is 
gauctitied by a hoary head, would procure me 



266 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



BO much esteem, that, even then, I ■would 
learn to he hai'py. However, I am under no 
apprehensions about that ; for thoujjh indo- 
lent, yet 80 far as an extremely delicate con- 
stitution permits, I am not lazy, and in many 
things, especially in tavern matters. I am a 
strict economist — not, indeed, for the sake 
of the money, but one of the principal parts 
in my composition is a kind of pride of sto- 
SDach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any 
man liviHg — above every thing, I abhor, as hell, 
the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, 
who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis 
this, and this alone, that endears economy 
to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am 
»ery profuse. My favourite authors are of 
the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, 
particularly his " Elegies ; " Thomson ; 
" Man of Feeling" — a book I prize next to 
the Bible ;—" Man of the World;" Sterne, 
especially his " Sentimental Journey ;" Mac- 
pherson's " Ossian," &c. ; these are the glo- 
rious models after which I endeavour to form 
my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, j 
to suppose that the man whose mind glows 
with sentiments lighted up at their sacred 
flame — the man whose heart distends with 
benevolence to all the human race — he "who 
can soar above this little scene of things " — 
can he descend to mind the paltry concern* 
about which the terriTettlial race fret, and fume, 
and vex themselves ! Oh how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I 
am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
unknown, stalking up and down fairs and 
markets, when I happen to be in them, read- 
ing a page or two of mankind, and " catching 
the manners living as they rise," whilst the 
men of business jostle me on every side, as 
an idle incumbrance in their way. But I 
dare say I have by this time tired your pa- 
tience ; so I shall conclude with begging you 
to g^ve Mrs Murdoch — not my compliments, 
for that is a mere common-place story, but 
my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare — 
and accept of the same for votirself, from, 
dear Sir, yours, B. B. 



TO- 



[an early love letter.] 

Lochlea, 1783. 
I VERILY Delieve, niy dear E., that the 
pure genuine feelings of love are as rare in 
the world as the pure genuine principles of 
virtue and piety. Thia, I hope, will account 
for the uncommon style of ail my letters to 



you. By uncommon, I mean their bein«» 
written in such a hasty manner, which, 
to tell you the truth, has made me often 
afraid lest you should take me for some 
zealous bigot, who conversed with his mis- 
tress as he would converse with his minister, 
I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, 
except your company, there is nothing '.n 
earth gives me so much pleasure as writi.ig 
to you, yet it never gives me those giddy 
raptures so much talked of among lovers. I 
have often thought that if a well-grounded 
affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis 
something extremely akin to it. Whenever 
the thought of my E. warms my heart, 
every feeling of humanity; every priu> 
ciple of generosity, kindles in my breast. 
It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice 
and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. 
I grasp every creature in the arms of uni- 
versal benevolence, and equally participate 
in the pleasures of the happy, and sympatliise 
with the miseries of ihe unfortunate. I 
assure iu, my dear, I often look up to the 
Divine Disposer of events with an eye of 
gratitude for the blessing which I hope ho 
intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. 
I sincerely wish that he may bless my endea- 
vours to make your life as comfortable and 
happy as possible, both in sweetening the 
rougher parts of my natural temper, and 
bettering the unkindly circumstances of my 
fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least 
in my view, worthy of a man, and, I will add, 
worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth- 
worm may profess love to a woman's person, 
whilst in reality his affection is centered in 
her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go 
a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to 
choose one who is stout and tirm, and, as we 
may say of an old horse, one who will be a 
good drudge, and draw kindly. I disdain 
their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily 
out of humour with myself, if I thought I 
were capable of having so poor a notion of 
the sex, which were designed to crown the 
pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't 
envy them their happiness who have such 
notions. For my part, I propose quite othei 
pleasures with my dear partner. £. B. 

NO. 111. 

TO THE SAME. 

Lochlea, 1783. 
My Dear E. — I do not remember, in tno 
course of your acquaintance and mine, evei 
to have heard your opinion on the ordinary 
way of falling in love, amongst people of oui 
station m Life. I do not mean the persons 



A LOVE LETTER. 



267 



wlio proceed in the way of bargain, but those 
whose affection is really placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have 
some opportunities of observing the conduct 
of others who are much better skilled in the 
affair of courtship than I am, I often think 
it is owing to lucky chance, more than to 
good management, that there are not more 
unhappy marriages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of the females, and customary for 
him to keep them company when occasion 
serves : some one of them is more agreeable 
to him than the rest — there is something, he 
knows not what, pleases him, he knows not 
how, in her company. This I take to be 
■what is called love with the greater part of us ; 
and I must owu, my dear E., it is a hard 
game such a one as you have to play when 
you meet with such a lover. You cannot 
refuse but he is sincere, and yet though 
you use him ever so favourably, perhaps 
in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
or two, the same unaccountable fancy may 
make him as distractedly fond of another, 
whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware, 
that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure 
of seeing you, you may bid me take my own 
lesson home, and tell me that the passion I 
have professed for you is perhaps one of 
those transient flashes I have been descri- 
bing ; but I hope, my dear E., you will 
do me the justice to believe me, when I 
assure you that the love I have for you is 
founded on the sacred principles of virtue 
and honour, and by consequence, so long 
as you continue possessed of those amiable 
qualities which first inspired my passion 
for yon, so long must I continue to love you. 
Believe me, my dear, it is love like this 
alone which can render the marriage state 
happy. People may talk of flames and 
raptures as long as they please — and a warm 
fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may 
make them feel something like what they 
describe ; but s>ire 1 am, the nobler faculties 
of the mind, with kindred feelings of the 
heart, can only be the foundation of friend- 
ship, and it has always been my opinion 
that the married life was only friendship in 
a more exalted degree. If you will be so 
good as to grant my wishes, and it should 
please Providence to spare us to the latest 
period of life, I can look forward and see 
that even then, though bent down with 
wrinkled age — even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances will be indifferent 
to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest 
affection, 8Lud for this plain reason, because 

24 



she is still possessed of those noble qualities 
improved to a much higher degree, which 
first inspired my affection for her. 

Oh! happy state, when souls each other draw. 
When love is liberty, and nature law. 

I know were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of 
no small share of sense, she would think 
it ridiculous ; but the language of the heart 
is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall 
ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I 
am sensible it is vastly different from ilio 
ordinary style of courtship, but 1 shall make 
no apology — I know your good nature \iill 
excuse what yoiu: good sense may sea 
amiss. E. B. 



TO THE SA]\IE. 

Lochlea, 1783. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiar un- 
lucky circumstance in love, that though, in 
every other situation in life, telling tlie 
truth is not only the safest, but actually by 
far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover ii 
never under greater difficulty in acting, or 
more puzzled for expression, than when his 
passion is sincere, and his intentions are hon- 
ourable. I do not think that it is very difticult 
for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love 
and fondness which are not felt, and to make 
vows of constancy and fidelity which are 
never intended to be performed, if he be 
villain enough to practice such detestable 
conduct ; but to a man whose heart glows 
with the principles of integrity and truth, 
and who sincerely loves a woman of atniahle 
person, uncommon refinement of sentiment 
and purity of manners — to such a one, in 
such circumstances, I can assure you, tny 
dear, from my own feelings at this present 
moment, courtship is a task indeed There 
is such a number of foreboding fears and 
distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind 
when I am in your company, or when I 
sit down to write to you, that what to speak, 
or what to write, I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule wliich I have hitherto 
practised, and which I shall invariably 
keep with you, and thit is, honestly to tell 
you the plain truth. There is something 
so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimu- 
lation and falsehood, that I am surprised 
they can be acted by any one, m so noble, so 
generous a passion, as virtuoiM love. No, 
my dear £., I shall never endeavour ta 



268 



COERESfONDENCE OF BURNS. 



gain your favour by such detestable practices. 
d you will be so good, and so generous, 
as to admit me for your partner, your 
companion, your bosom friend through life, 
there is nothing on this side of eternity 
sluiU give rae gTeater transport; but I shall 
never think of purchasing your hand by 
any arts unworthy of a man, and, I will add, 
of a Christian, There is one thing, my dear, 
which I earnestly request of you, and it is 
this, tiiat you would soon either put an end 
to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure 
me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would 
send me a line or two when convenient. 
I shall only add further, that, if a behaviour 
regulated (though perhaps but very imper- 
fccily) by the rules of honour and virtue, if 
a heart devoted to love and esteem you, 
and an earnest endeavour to promote your 
hiijipiness — if these are qualities you wish in 
a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever 
find them in your real friend and sincere 
lover, R. B. 



NO. V. 

TO THE SATiIE. 

LocMea, i7S3. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have ac- 
knowledged the receipt of your letter before 
this time, but my heart was so shocked with 
the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet 
collect my thouglis so as to write to you on the 
suljject. I will not attempt to describe what 
I felt on receiving your letter. I read it 
over and over, again and again, and though 
it was in the politest language of refusal, 
Btill it was peremptory : "you were sorry you 
could not make me a return, but you wish 
me" — what, without you, I never can obtain — 
"you wish me all kind of happiness." It 
would be weak and unmanly to say that 
without you 1 never can be happy ; but sure 
I am, that sharing life with you would have 
given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can 
Lc\er taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much 
strike me : these, possibly, may be met with 
in a few instances in others ; but that a,mia- 
ble goodness, that tender feminine softness, 
that endearing sweetness of disposition, with 
all the charming ofFspiing of a warm feeling 
heart — these I never again expect to meet 
with, in such a degree, in this world. All 
these charming qualities, heightened by an 
euucation much beyond any thing I have 
e7«r Diet in any «cimaa I ever dared to 



approach, have made an impression on my 
heart that I do not think the world can ever 
efface. Jly imagination has fondly flattered 
myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever 
reached a hope, that possibly I might one 
day call you mine. I had formed the most 
delightful images, and my fancy fondly 
brooded over them ; but now I am wretched 
for the loss of what I really had no right to 
expect. I must now think no more of you 
as a mistress ; stdl I presume to ask to be 
admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be 
allowed to wait on you ; and as I expect to 
remove in a few days a little further otf, and 
you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I 
wish to see or hear from you soon : and if 
an expression should perhaps escape me, 
rather too warm for friendship, I hope you 
will pardon it in, my dear jMiss — (pardon me 
the dear expression for once) » • • R. B. 



NO. VI. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS^ 

WRITER, MONTROSE. (1) 

Lochlea, 2\st June, 1783. 

Dear Sir. — My father received your 
favour of the 10th current, and as lie has 
been for some months very poorly in health, 
and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in 
almost every body's else) in a dying condi- 
tion, he has only, with great dilticulty, 
written a few farewell lines to each of his 
brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, 
I now hold the pen for him to thank you for 
your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that 
it shall not be my fault if my father's cor- 
respondence in the north die with him. My 
brother writes to John Caird, and to him I 
must refer you for the news of our family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few par 
ticulars relative to the wretched state of thi» 
country. Our markets are exceedingly high 
— oatmeal, 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not 
to be got even at that price. We have indeed 
been pretty well supphed with quantities erf 
white peas from England and elsewhere, but 
that resource is likely to fail us, and what 
will become of us then, particularly the very 
poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This 
country, till of late, was llourishiug incre- 
dibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, 
and carpet-weaving; and we are still car- 
rying on 8 good deal in that way, but 
mucli reduced fro:n what it was. We had 
also a line trade in the shoe way, but now 
entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a 



LETTER TO MR. BURNESS. 



261> 



■tarving coticlition on account of it. Farming 
U also at a very low ebb with us. Our lauds, 
generally speaking, are mountainous and 
barren ; and our landholders, full of ideas of 
fanning gathered from the English and the 
Ijothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, 
make no allowance for the odds of the quality 
of land, and consequently stretch us much 
beyond what in the event we will be found 
able to pay. We are also much at a loss for 
want of proper methods in our improvements 
of farming. Necessity compels us to leave 
our old schemes, and few of us have oppor- 
tunities of being well informed in new ones. 
In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate 
beginning of this American war, and its as 
unfortunate conclusion, this country has 
been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even 
in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble- 
men, and the major part of our knights and 
•cfuires, are all insolvent. A miserable job 
of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which 
no doubt you have heard of, has undone 
numbers of them; and imitating English and 
French, and other foreign luxuries and fop- 
peries, has ruined as many more. There is a 
great trade of smuggling carried on along our 
coasts, which, however destructive to the 
interests of the kingdom at large, certainly 
enriches this corner of it, but too often at 
the expense of our morals. However, it 
enables individuals to make, at least for a 
time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
as is usual with her when she is uncommonly 
lavish of her favours, is generally even with 
them at the last : and happy were it for 
numbers of them if she would leave them no 
worse than when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a 
cheese ; 'tis but a very little one, as our last 
year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix 
on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glas- 
gow, we would send you a proper one in the 
season. Mrs. Black promises to take the 
cheese under her care so far, and then to 
■end it to you by the Stirling carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with assur- 
ing you that I shall be very happy to hear 
from you, or any of our friends in your 
country, when opportunity serves. 

ily father sends you, probably for the last 
time in this world, his warmest wiobes for 
yffur welfare and happiness; and my mother 
and the rest of the family desire to enclose 
tlR-ir kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, 
and the rest of your family, along with those 
at, dear Sir, your affectionate cousin, 

B.B. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- 
TROSE. 

Locldea, nth February, 1734, 

Dear Cousin. — I would have returned 
you my thanks for your kind favour of the 
13th of December sooner, had "it not been 
that I waited to give you an account of tiiat 
melancholy event, which, for some time past, 
we have from day to day expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of 
fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had 
long warning of the impending stroke, still 
the feelings of nature claim their part, and I 
cannot recollect the tender endearments and 
parental lessons of the best of fi-iends and 
ablest of instructors, without feeling what 
perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would 
partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in your country 
will not let their connexion in this place di» 
with him. For my part I shall ever with 
pleasure, with pride, acknowledge my con- 
nexion with those who were allied, by the ties 
of blood and friendship to a man whose 
memory I shall ever honour and revere. 

I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will 
not neglect any opportunity of letting rae 
hear from you, which will very much oblige, 
my dear cousin, youra sincerely, iL E. 



TO Ma. JAMES BURNESS, MON- 
TROSE. 

Mossgiel, August, 1784. 
We have been surprised with one of the 
most extraordinary phenomena in the moral 
world, which, I dare say, has happened in the 
course of this half century. We have had a 
party of Presbytery relief, as they call them- 
selves, for some time in this country. A. 
pretty thriving society of them has been in 
the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till 
about two years ago a Mrs. Buchan from 
Glasgow came among them, and began to 
spread some fanatical notions of religion 
among them, and, in a short time, made 
many converts ; and among others their 
preacher, Mr White, who, upon that account, 
has been suspended and formally deposed by 
his brethren. He continued, however, to 
preach in private to his party, and was sun- 
ported, both he and their spiritual mothei, 
as they affect to call old Buchan, by tha 
contributions of the rest, several of whom 



270 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



were in good circumstances ; till in spring 
last, the popiilaci! rose and mobbed Mrs. 
Bnchan, and put her out of the town ; on 
which all her followers Toluntarily quitted 
the place likewise, and with such precipita- 
tion, that many of them never shut their 
doors behind them; one left a washing on the 
green, another a cow bellowing at the crib 
without food, or any body to mind her, and 
after several stages, they are fixed at present 
in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their 
tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic 
jargon ; among others, she pretends to give 
them the Holy Ghost by breathing on them, 
which she does with postures and practices 
that are scandalously indecent. They have 
likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold 
a community of goods, and live nearly an 
idle life, carrying on a great farce of pre- 
tended devotion in barns and woods, where 
they lodge and lie all together, and hold 
likewise a community of women, as it is 
another of their tenets that they can commit 
no moral sin. I am personally acquainted 
with most of them, and I can assure you the 
above mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many 
instances of the folly of leaWng the guidance 
of sound reason and common sense in mat- 
ters of religion. 

vViienever we neglect or despise these 
Bacred monitors, the whimsical notions of a 
perturbated brain are taken for the immedi- 
ate influences of the Deity, and the wildest 
fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdi- 
ties, will meet with abettors and converts. 
Nay, I have often thought, that the more 
out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies 
are, if once they are sanctified under the 
sacred name of religion, the unhappy mis- 
taken votaries are the more firmly glued to 
them. E. B. 



XO SIR. JAMES SMITH, MAUCH- 
LINE. 

Mossrjiel, Monday Morning, 1786. 
My Dear Sir. — I went to Dr. Douglas 
yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- 
tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the 
Doctor with a Mr. and ISIrs. Wliite, both 
Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans 
altogether. They assure him that to send 
me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio, 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, up- 
wards of fifty pounds, besides running the 
hsk of throwing myself into a iileuritic fever. 



in consequence of harf'. travelling/ in the 
sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending 
me with Smith ; but n vessel sails from 
Greenock the 1st of September, right for 
the place of my destination. The captain 
of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin 
Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart 
could wish : with hira I am destined to go. 
Where I shall shelter I know not, but I 
hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop 
of blood of mine that fears them ! I know 
their worst, and am prepared to meet it :— 

I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 
As lang's \ dow. 

On Thursday morning if you can muster 
as much self-denial as to be out of bed about 
seien o'clock, I shall see you as I ride 
through to Cuinuock. After all, Heaven 
bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness 
for me among them : — 

Oh woman, lovely womai* ! Heaven designed 

you 
To temper man ! — we had been brutes with- 

out you 1 

RB. 



TO MR, JOHN RICHMOND, EDIN- 
BURGH. (2) 

Mossgiel, Fflmary 17, 1786. 

Mt dear Sir. — I have not time at 
present to upbraid you f jr your silence and 
neglect ; I shall only suy I received yours 
with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a 
piece of rhyming ware f >r your perusal. I 
have been very busy with the muses since I 
saw you, and have composed, among several 
others; — The Ordination, a poem on Mr. 
jM'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock; 
Scotch Drink, a poem ; The Cotter's Saturday 
Night ; An Address to the Devil, &c. I 
have likewise completed my poem on the 
Dogs, but have not shown it to the world. 
My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, 
who is pleased to expres j great approbation 
of my works. Be so good as send me 
Fergusson, by Connel, and I wUl remit you 
the money. I have no iicws to acquaint you 
with about Mauchline; they are just going 
on in the old way. I 'lave some very im- 
portant news with respciit to myself, not the 
most agreeable — ne\vs that I am sure yoii 
cannot guess, but I shal\ give you the par- 
ticulars another time. I am extremely 
happy with Smith; he is the only frieud I 



LETTER TO ME, AIKEN. 



271 



have now in MaucWine. I can scarcely for^'ve 
your long: neglect of me, and I beg you will 
let me hear from you regularly by Connel. 
If you would act your part as a friend, I am 
«ure neither good nor bad fortune should 
itrange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got 
your's but yesterday. I am, my dear Sir, 

RoBEKT Burns. 



NO. XI. 

TO SIR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786, 

Sir. — I have done myself the pleasure of 
complying with your request in sending you 
my Cottager. If you have a leisure minute, 
1 should be glad if you would copy 't and 
return me either the original or the trans- 
cript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and 
I have a friend who wishes to see it. 

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 

E'er bring you in by Maacliliue Corse (3), 

Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy ; 
And down the gate, in faith, they're worse. 

And mair unchancy. 

But, as I'm sayin'. please step to Dow's, 
And taste sic lieer as Johnnie brews. 
Till some bit callan bring me new* 

That you are there ; 
And if we dinna hand a bouze, 

I'll ne'er drink mair. 

It's no I like to sit and swallow. 
Then like a swine to puke and wallow; 
But gie me just a true good fallow, 

\Vi' right engine. 
And spunkie ance to make us mellow. 

And then we'll shine. 

Now, if you're ane o' warld's folk, 
Wlia rate the wearer by the cloak. 
And sklent on i)overty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship will I troke. 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel. 
Ye hate, as ill's the vera deil. 
The flinty heart that canna feel. 

Come, Sir, here's tae you ! 

Has, there's ray haun', I wiss you weel. 

And guid be wi' you 1 

R.B. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAR- 
NOCK. 

Mossgiel, 20t7i March, 1786. 

Dear Sir. — I am heartily sorry I had not 
the pleasure of seeing you as you returned 
through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, 
I could not be in town before the evening. 

I here enclose you ray "Scotch Dr.nk," 

and "may the follow" with a blessing for 

your edification. I hope, some time before 
we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of 
seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we 
shall have a gill between us in a mutchkia- 
stoup, which will be a great comfort and 
consolation to, dear Sir, your humble servant, 
Robert Busns. 



NO. XIII. 

TO MR. AIKEN. 



Mossgiel, 3rd April, 1786. 

Dear Sir. — I received your kind letter 
with double pleasure on account of the 
second flattering instance of Mrs. C.'s notice 
and approbation. I assure you I 

Turn out the burnt side o' my skin, 

u the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, 
says, at such a patroness. Present her my 
most grateful acknowledgements, in your 
very best manner of telling truth. I have 
inscribed the following stanza on the blank 
leaf of Miss More's work : — 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind. 
Still may thy pages call to mind 
The dear, the beauteous donor. 
ThOBgh sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the heart, 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She showed her taste refined and juat 

When she selected thee. 
Yet deviating own I must. 
For so approving me ; 

But kind still, I mind still. 

The giver in the gift — 

111 bless her, and wiss her 

A friend above the Lift. 

My proposals for publishing I am just 
going to send to press. I expect to heal 
from you by the first opportunity. I slw, 
ever dear Sir, your's, Robert Burn ». 



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(X)RRBSIH)XDtLNCK OF BLUNS. 



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TO MR. JOHN KKNNF.DY. 
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TO MR. DWIU HRICB. (I) 

UouyM, Jmm* 12, 178A. 

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I • I . and at 1 ain ti"'. << rr 

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TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 



27S 



roi a grand cure: the ship is on her way 
\ioine that is to take me out to Jamaica ; 
and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and 
farewell, dear ungriteful Jean, for never, 
never will I see you Jnore. 

You will have heard that I am going to 
commence poet in print ; and to-morrow my 
works go to the press. I expect it will be a 
Toluine of about 200 pages — it is just the 
last foolish action I iuteud to do ; and then 
turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe 
Rie to be, dear Brice, your fr'end and well- 
WLshei, K. B. 



NO. XVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLOP. 

Aijrsldre, July, 1786. 

Madam. — I am truly sorry I was not at 
home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and 
incomparably more by the handsome com- 
pliments you are pleased to pay my poetic 
abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is 
not any class of mankind so feelingly alive 
to the titillations of applause as the sons of 
Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with 
rapture, when those whose character in life 
gives them a right to be polite judges, 
honour him with their approbation. Had 
you been thoroughly acquainted with me. 
Madam, you could not have touched my 
darling heart-chord more sweetly than by 
noticing my attempts to celebrate your 
illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his 
country. 

Great patriot hero ! ill- requited chief! 

riie first book I met with in my early years, 
•which I perused with pleasure, was "Tlie 
Life of Hannibal;" the next was " 7'lie 
History of Sir William Wallace ; " for several 
of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, 
after the laborious vocations of the day, to 
»hetl a tear over their glorious, but unfortu- 
nate stories. In those boyish days I re- 
member, in particular, being struck with 
that part of Wallace's story where these lines 
occui : — 

Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late. 
To make a silent and a safe retreat. 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half-a- 
dozen of miles to pay my respects to the 
I/Cgleu wood, wifli as much devout enthu 



siasra as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as 
I explored every den and dell where I could 
suppose my heroic couiitryinau to have 
lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a 
rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish 
to be able to make a song ou him in some 
measure equal to his merits. R. B. 



NO. XIX. 

TO JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. 

Mossgiel, July Otii, 1786. 

With the sincerest grief I read your 
letter. You a'-e truly a son of misfortune. 
I shall be extremely anxious to hear from 
you how your health goes on — if it is any 
way re-establishing, or if Leith promises well 
— in short, how you feel in the inner man. 

I have waited on Armour since her return 
home; not from the leasi view of reconcilia- 
tion, but merely to ask for her health, and, 
to you I will confess it, from a foolish 
hankering foiulness, very ill placed indeed. 
The mother forbade me the house, nor did 
Jean show that penitence that might have 
been expected. However, the priest, 1 am 
hiformed, will give me a certificate as a 
single man, if I comply with the rules of the 
church, which, for that very reason, I intend 
to do. 

I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes 
this day. I am indulged so far as to appear 
ill my owji seat. Peccavi, pater; miserere 
mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. 
If you have any subscribers, return them by 
Connell. The Lord stand with the rigiitft 
ous — amen, amen. R. B. 



NO. TO. 

TO ]\IR. DAVID BRICE, 

SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 

Mossgiel, July I7tk, 1786. 

I HAVE been so throng printing my 
Poems, that I could scarcely find as much 
time as to write to you. Poor Armour is 
come back again to Mauchline, and I went 
to call for her, and her mother forbade me 
the house, nor did she herself express much 
sorrow for what she has done. I ha\e 
already appeared publicly in church, and was 
indulged in the liberty of standing in ray 
own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a 
bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. 
I am now fixed to go for the West Indie* iu 



' l!IIHIIIIIIHIII!>llMllllllllllllHluliilllHilllllllHlli,iuMdill{lillll1llllllllllil{li:illlllllllinillllllllllllllllllllllll|lilll||||||ll||il||l|||iii 



274 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



October. Jean and her friends insisted 
mueli that she sli.ould stand along with me 
in the kirk, but tl)e minister would not allow 
it, wliicii bred a great trouble, I assure you, 
and I am blamed as the cause of it, though 
I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very 
mucii pleased, for all that, not to have had 
her company. I have no news to tell you 
that I remember. I am really happy to 
liear of your welfare, and that you are so 
well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you 
before I leave the country. I shall expect 
to hear from you soon, and am, dear Brice, 
yours, R. B. 



NO. XXI. 

TO MR. JOHN RICiniOND. 

Old Rome Forest, July 30tk, 1786. 

My Dear Richmond. — My hour is now 
come — you and I will never meet in Britain 
more. I have orders within three weeks at 
fartiiest, to repair aboard the Nancy, Captain 
Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at 
Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, 
whom God long preserve, is a secret about 
Mauchline. Would you believe it ? Armour 
has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I 
find security for an enormous sum. This 
they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a 
channel they little dream of; and I am 
wandering from one friend's house to another, 
and, like a true son of the gospel, " have no- 
where to lay my head." I know you will 
pour an execration on lier head, but spare 
the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake ; 
though may all the furies that rend the 
injured, enraged mother's bosom, await her 
mother until her latest hour ! I WTite in a 
moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable 
situation — exiled, aliandoned, forlorn. I can 
write no more — let me hear from you by the 
return of coach. 1 will write you ere I go. 
I am, dear Sir, yours, here and hereafter, 
R.B. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIB, KILMAR- 
NOCK. 

Mossgiel, Friday Morning, \_Aug. 1786.] 

My Frienb, my Brother — Warm 
recollection of an absent friend presses so 
hard upon my heart, that I send him the 
prefixed bagatelle (The Calf), pleased with 
the thought that it will greet the man of my 
bosom, and be a kind of distant language of 
friendship. 



You will have heard that poor ArmoMi 
has repaid me double. A very tine boy and 
a girl have awakened a thought and feelings 
that thrill, some with tender pressure, and 
some with foreboding anguish, through my 
soul. 

The poem was nearly etn extempornneous 
production, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, 
that I would not produce a poem on the 
subject in a given time. 

If you think it worth while, read it to 
Charles and ]Mr W. Parker, and if they 
choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as 
they are men whose friendship I shall be 
proud to claim, both in this world and that 
which is to come. 

I believe all hopes of staying at home, will 
be abortive ; but more of this when, in the 
latter part of next week, you shall be trou" 
bled with a visit from, my dear Sn-, youi 
most devoted, R. B. 



NO. XXIII. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 

My Dear Sir. — Your truly facetious 
epistle of the 3rd instant gave me much 
entertainment. I was only sorry I had not 
the pleasure of seeing yon as I passed yoiur 
way, but we shall bring up all our lee-way 
on Wednesday, the IGth current, when I 
hope to have it in my power to call on you, 
and take a kind, very probably, a last adieu, 
before I go to Jamaica ; and I expect orders 
to repair to Greenock every day. I have at 
last made my public appearance, and am 
solemnly inaugurated into the numerous 
class. Could I have got a carrier, you 
should have had a score of vouchers for my 
authorship ; but, now you have them, let 
them speak for themselves. 

Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit yco, 
And 'mang her favourites admit you. 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you. 

May nane beheve him. 
And ony deil that thinks to get you. 

Good Lord, deceive him. 

R.B. 

HO. XXIV. 

TO MR BURNESS, MONTROSE. 

Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sept. 26, 1786, 

My Dear Sir. — I this moment receive 
yolurs — receive it with the honest hospitable 
warmth of a frienil's welcome. "Whatever 



TO MR. EGBERT AIKEN. 



27d 



«'0m«.'9 froM you wakens always up the bet- 
ter bljoil al)unt my heart, which your kind 
little recollections of my parental frieuils 
curries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that 
mail is blest ! — 'Tis there, my fi-iend, man 
feels a consciousness of something within 
him above the trodden clod ! The grateful 
reverence to the hoary (earthl30 author of 
his being — the burning glow when he clasp* 
the woman of his soul to his bosom — the 
tender yearnings of heart for the little angels 
to whom he has given existence — these 
nature has poured iu milky streams about 
the human heart; and the man who never 
rouses them to action, by the inspiring in- 
fluences of their proper objects, loses by far 
the most pleasurable part of his existence. 

My departure is- uncertain, but I do not 
think it will be till after harvest. I will be 
on very short allowance of time indeed, if I 
do not comply with your friendly invitation. 
V\'hen it will be, I don't know, but if I can 
make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop 
you a hue some time before. My best com- 
pliments to Mrs. B.; I should be equally 
mortified should I drop in when she is 
abroad ; but of that I suppose there is little 
chance. 

What I have wrote Heaven knows ; I have 
not time to review it ; so accept of it in the 
beaten way of frieiulship. With the ordinary 
phrase — perhaps rather more than the 
ordinary sincerity — I am, dear Sir, ever 
yours, R. B. 



NO. XXV. 

TO MR ROBERT AIKEN. (7) 

Ayrshire^ 1786. 

Sir. — I was with Wilson my printer t'other 
day, and settled all our bygone matters be- 
tween us. After I had paid him all demands, 
I made him the offer of the second edition, 
on the hazard of being paid out of the first 
and readiest, which he declines. By his 
accovint, the paper of 1000 copies would cost 
about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fifteen or sixteen ; he offers to agree 
to this for the printing, if I will advance for 
the paper, but this you know, is out of my 
power ; so farewell hopes of a second edition 
till I grow richer ! an epoch wiiich I think 
will arrive at the payment of the British 
national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disappointed of my second 
edition, as not having it in my power to 
Bhow my gratitude to Mi. Ballautine, by 
yublishiug my poem of the Brigs of Ayr. 



I would detest ayself as a wretch, if I 
thought I were capable, in a very long life of 
forgetting the honest, warm, and tender deli 
cacy with which he enters into my interests, 
I am sometimes pleased with myself in my 
grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the 
whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of 
reflection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion 
of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly 
maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rota- 
tions and movements within, respecting the 
excise. There are many things plead strongly 
against it ; the imcertainty of getting soon 
into business ; the consequences of my fol- 
lies, which may perhaps make it impracticalde 
for me to stay at home ; and besides, I have 
for some time been pining under secret 
wretchedness, from causes which you pretty 
well know : — the pang of disappointment, tl\e 
sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of 
remorse, which never fail to settle on my 
vitals like vultures, when attention is not 
called away by the calls of society, or tlie 
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of 
social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an 
intoxicated criminal under the hands of the 
executioner. All these reasons urge me to 
go abroad, and to all these reasons I have 
only one answer — the feelings of a father. 
This, in the present mood I am in, over- 
balances every thing that can be laid in the 
scale against it. 

You may perhaps think it an extravasrant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes 
home to mjf very soul ; though sceptical in 
some points of our current belief, yet I think 
I have every evidence for the reality of a life 
beyond the stinted bourne of our present 
existence : if so, then, how should 1 in the 
presence of that tremendous Being, the Au- 
thor of existence, how should I meet th? 
reproaches of those who stand to me in the 
dear relation of children, whom I deserted in 
the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? 
Oh thou great unknown Power 1 — thou Al- 
mighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! 
— I have frequently wandered from that 
order and regularity necessary for the per- 
fection of thy works, yet thou hast never left 
me nor forsaken me ! 

Since I wrote the foregoing shent, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief 
thickening over my folly-devoted head. 
Should you, my friends, my benefactors, ba 
successfid in your applications for me (8), 
perhaps it may not be in my power in that 
way, to reap the fruit of your friendly etfurtSi 



<^ 




iininiiiiniiiiiiiiiKiiiiiiiiiiiiHii 




278 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



VTiat I have written in the precerlirig pages 
is tlie settleil tenor of my present resolution ; 
but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
closing with yonr kind oft'er, or enjoying it 
only threaten to entail further misery * * * 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
complaint ; as the workl, in general, has 
been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I 
was, for some time past, fast gettin.g into 
the pining, distrustful snarl of the misan- 
throjie. I saw myself alone, unfit for the 
struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of 
fortune, while, all defenceless, I looked about 
in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, 
at least never with the force it deserved, that 
this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- 
ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and 
that, however I might possess a warm heart 
end inoffensive manners (which last, by the 
bye, was rather more than I could well 
boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there was something to be done. When 
all my school-fellows and youthful compeers 
(those misguided few excepted, who joined, 
to use a Gentoo phrase, the " hallachores" of 
the human race) were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intent, in some one or other 
of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
ing idle in the market-place," or only left 
the chase of the butterfly from flow* to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 

You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them, I stand 
a fair chance ; but according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it. R. B. 



TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

1786. 
Madam. — The hurry of my preparations 
for going abroad has hindered me from per- 
forming my promise so soon as I intended. 
I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., 
which never made their appearance, except 
to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some 
of them may be no great entertainment to 
you, but of that I am far from being an ade- 
quate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick 
Banks (The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle), 
you will easily see the impropriety of exposing 
much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, 
it has some merit, both as a tolerable des- 
cription of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a 
luly evening, and one of the finest pieces of 



nature's workmanship, the finest indeed vre 
know anything of, an amiable, beautiful 
young woman (9) ; but I have no common 
friend to procure me that permission, with- 
out which 1 would not dare to spread the 
copy. 

1 am quite aware. Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The 
obscure bard, when any of the great conde- 
scend to take notice of him should heap the 
altar with the incense of flattery. Tiieir 
high ancestry, their own great and god-like 
qualities and actions, shoidd be recounted 
with the most exaggerated description. This, 
Madam, is a task for which I am altogethei 
unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride 
of heart, I know nothing of your connexionj 
in life, and have no access to where youj 
real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers ; and more, I am afraid 
that even the most refined adulation is by uo 
means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall evei 
with gratefid pleasure remember— the rece]i- 
tion I got when I had the honour of waiting 
on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with 
politeness, but I know a good deal of benevo- 
lence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely 
did those in exalted stations know how happy 
they could make some classes of their 
inferiors by condescension and affability, 
they would never stand so high, measuring 
out with every look the height of their ele- 
vation, but condescend as sweetly as did 
Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. 



KO. XXVII. 



In the name op the NINE. Amen. 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant 
from Nature, bearing date the twenty-hfth 
day of January, anno domini one thousand 
seven himdred and fifty-nine (10), Poet 
Laureat, and Bard-in-Chief. in and over the 
districts and count/ ies of Kyle, Cunningh un, 
and Carrick, of old extent, 'To our trusty and 
well-beloved William Chalmers and Joim 
M'Adam, students and practitioners in the 
ancient and mysterious science of confound- 
ing Wright and wrong. 

Right Trusty — Be it known unto you. 
That whereas in the course of our care and 
watchings over the order and police of all 
and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and 
venders of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, 
rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, 
&c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — We have 
discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, 




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iiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



i:i.iiiii;iii. 




TO JOHN BALLATINE, iiSQ. 



277 



euid wxked song or ballad, a copy wliereof 
VVe have here enclosed ; Our ^Vill therefore 
is that ye pitcli upon and appoint the most 
execrahle individual of that most execrable 
species, knowa by the apjjelhition, phrase, 
and nickname of The Dell's Yell Nowte (11): 
and after having caused him to kindle a fire 
at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noon-tide of 
the day, put into the said wretch's merciless 
hands the said copy of the said nefarious 
and wicked song, to be consumed by tire in 
presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, 
und terror to, all such compositions and 
composers. And this in nowise leave ye un- 
done, but have it executed in every point as 
tliis our mandate bears, before the twenty- 
fourth current, when in person We hope to 
applaud 3'our faitlifulness and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of 
November, anno domini one thousand seven 
hundred and eighty-six. 

God i&ve the Bard I 



NO. XXVIII. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa, 
MAUCHLINE. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 7th, 1786. 

Honoured Sir. — I have paid every at- 
tention to your commands, but can only say, 
what perhaps you will have heard before this 
reach you, tliat Muirkirklands were bought 
by a John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I 
know not ; Mauchlands, Haugh Mihi, &c., 
by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to 
be for Ballochmyle Laird ; And Adam-hill 
and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks, 
lliis is so imperfect an account, and wiU be 
so late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it; but after all my diligence I 
could make it no sooner nor better. 

For ray own affairs, I am in a fair way of 
becomuig as eminent as Thomas a Kempis 
or John Bunyon ; and you may expect hence- 
forth to see my birth-day inserted among the 
wonderful events, in the Poor Robin's and 
Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the black 
Monday, and the battle of Bothwell-bridge. 
My Lord Glencairu and the Dean of Faculty, 
Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their 
wing ; and by all probability I shall soon be 
the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man 
of the world. Through my lord's influence, 
it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian 
Hunt, that they universally, one and all, 
subscribe for the second edition. My sub- 
scription bills come out to-morrow, and you 



shall have some of them next post. 1 have 
met in Mr. Dairy nyle of Orangelield, what 
Solomon emphatically calls " a friend that 
sticketh closer than a brother." The warmth 
with which he interests himself in my affairs 
is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, 
Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took 
notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for 
the poor unlucky devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and 
Jliss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you 
both in prose and verse. 

Jlay cauld ne'er catch you but a hap (12), 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 

Amen ! K. B. 



TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa, 
BANKER, AYR. 

Edinhuryh, Bee. I3th, 1786. 

My Honoured Friend. — I would not 
write you till I could have it in my power to 
give you some account of myself and my 
matters, which, by the bye, is often no easy 
task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'n- 
night, and have suffered ever snice I came to 
town with a miserable head-ache and stomach 
complaint, but am now a good deal better. 
I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. 
Dalrymple of Orangelield, who introduced 
me to Lord Glencairu, a man whose worth 
and brotherly kindness to me I shall remem- 
ber when time shall be no more. By his 
interest it is passed in the " Caledonian 
Hunt," and entered in their books, that th&y 
are to take each a copy of the second editioB, 
fof which they are to pay one guinea. I 
have been introduced to a good many of the 
noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patro- 
nesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the 
Countess of Glencairu, with my Lord, and 
Lady Betty (13)— the Dean of Faculty— 
Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm 
friends among the literati ; Professors Stew- 
art, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the " Man of 
Feeling." An unknown hand left ten f^uineas 
for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which 
I got. I since have discovered ray generous 
unknown friend to be Patrick Millar, Esq., 
brother to the Justice Clerk, — and drank a 
glass of claret with hira by invitation at his 
own kouse yesternight. I am nearly agreed 
with Creech to print my book, and I suppose 
I will begin on Monday. I will send a 
subscription bill or two, next post; when 
I intend writing to my first kind patron, 



278 



COREESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



J\Ir. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is 
very well. 

IJus^ald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper called 
the Ijounger (14,) a copy of which I here 
enclose you. I was. Sir, when I was first 
honoured with your notice, too obscure; 
now 1 tremble lest I should be ruined by 
being dragged too suddenly into the glaiV 
of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable 
me to make it something belter than this 
stupid matter-of-fact epistle. I have the 
honour to be, good Sir, youi ever grateful 
humble servant, . K. B. 

If any of my friends write me, my direc- 
tioa is, care of j\lr Creech, bookseller. 



TO MR. WILLL\:\I CHALMERS, 
WRITKR, AYR. 
EtUnhunjh, Dec. 27th, 1783, 

My Dear Friend.-^I confess I have 
sinned the sin for which, there is hardly any 
forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in 
not writnig you sooner; but of all men 
living, I had intended to have sent you an 
entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding conceited 
majesty preside over the dull routine of 
business — a heavily-solemn oath this ! — I 
am and have been, ever since I came to 
Edinburgh, as uulit to write a letter of 
humour as to write a commentary on the 
Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was 
banished to the Isle of Patmos by the cruel 
ami bloody Domician, son to Vespasian and 
brother to Titiis, both emperors of Rome, 
and who was himself an emperor, and raised 
the second or third persecution, I forget 
which, against the Christians, and after 
throwing the said Apostle John, brother to 
the Apostle James, commonly called James 
the Greater, to distinguish hiinfrom another 
James, who was on some account or other 
known by the name of James the Less — 
after throwing him into a caldron of boiling 
oil, from which he was miraculously jire- 
served, he banished the poor son of Zebedee 
to a desert island in the Archipelago, where 
he was gifted with the second sight, and saw 
as many wild beasts as 1 have seen since I 
came to Edinburgh; which, a — circumstauoB 
not very uncommon in story-telling — briugs 
roe back to where I set out. 

'I' » tuoke you some ameuii's for what 



before you reach this paragraph, you wi3 
liave suffered, I enclose you two poeivis 1 
have carded and spun since I passed Gleu- 
buck. 

One blank in the Address to Edinburs^h 

— " Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet., 

daughter to Lord jMonbotldo, at whose 
house I have had the honour to be more 
than once There has not been anytkiiig 
nearly like her in all the combinations of 
beauty, grace, and goodness, the great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on 
the tirat day of her existence. 

j\Iy direction is — care of Andrew Bruc«!, 
merchant, Bridge Street. R. B. 



NO. XXXI. 

TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE; 

ENCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING 
WITH LORD DAER. 

Wednesday Morning, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — I never spent an afternoon 
among great folks with half that pleasure, 
as when, in company with you, I had the 
honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, 
honest, worthy man, the professor [Dugald 
Stewart]. I would be delighted to see liim 
perform acts of kindness and friendship, 
though I were not the object; he does it 
with such a grace. I think his character, 
divided into ten parts, stands thus — foil 
parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and 
two parts Shafcspeare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really ex- 
tempore, bu.t a little corrected since. They 
may entertain you a little, with the help of 
that partiality with which you are so good 
as to favour the performances of, dear Sir, 
your very humble servant, R. B. 



NO. XXXII. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa. 
January, 1787. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by 
the side of a fire in a little country inu, and 
drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor 
fellow of a sodger, and tells me is going to 
Ayr. By heavens ! say I to myself, with a 
tide of good spirits which the magic of that 
sound, auld toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will 
send my last song to Mr. Ballautme. Her* 
it is — 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye biume sae fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I »ae fu' of cai'e 1 — &c. R. B- 




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TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



279 



Na XXXIII. 

TO THE EARL OF EGUNTON, 

Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

My Lord. — As I have but slender pre- 
tensions to philosophy, I cannot rise to the 
ex.ilted ideas of a citizen of the world, but 
have all those national prejudices which, 
I believe, glow peculiarly strong in the breast 
of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anythnig 
to which I am so feelingly alive as the 
honour and welfare of ray country ; and as 
a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
iingiug her sons and daughters. Fate had 
cast my station in the veriest shades of 
life ; but never did a heart pant more 
ardently than mine to be distinguished, 
though till, very lately, I looked in vain on 
e\ery side for a ray of light. It is easy, 
then, to guess how much I was gratilied 
with the countenance and approbation of 
one of my country's most illustrious sons, 
when ilr. Wauchope called on me yesterday 
on the part of your lordship. Your mu- 
nificence, my lord, certauily deserves my 
very grateful acknowledgments ; but your 
patronage is a bounty pecidiarly suited to 
my feelmgs. I am not master enough of 
the etiquette of life to know, whether ihere 
be not some impropriety in troubling your 
lordship with my thanks, but my heart 
whispered me to do it. From the emotions 
of my inmost soul I do it. Seltish in- 
gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and 
mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have 
ao much honest pride as to detest. R. B. 



NO. xxxiy. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa 
Edinburgh, Jan. I4th, 1787. 

My Honoured Friend. — It gives me a 
secret comfort to observe in myself that I 
am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's 
Skate, "past redemption;" (15) for I have 
still this favourable symptom of grace, that 
when my co-uscience, as in the case of this 
letter, tells me I am leaving something 
undone that I ought to do, it teazes me 
eternally till I do it. 

I am still " dark as was chaos " in respect 
to futurity. My generous friend, Mr. 
Patrick Miller, has been talking with me 
about a lease of some farm or other in an 
estate called Dalswinton, which he has 
lately bought near Dumfries. Some life- 



that I will be happier anjTvhere than in my 
old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no 
judge of laud ; and though I dare say he 
means to favour me, yet he may give me, in 
his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may 
ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I 
return, and have promised to meet Ml. 
Miller on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, 
where the most M^orshipful Grand Master 
Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scot- 
laud, visited. The meeting was numerous 
and elegant ; all the different lodges about 
town were present, in all their pomp. 'Die 
Grand Master, who presided with great 
solemnity and honour to himself as a gentle- 
man and mason, among other general toasts, 
gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
Brother Burns," which rang through the 
whole assembly with multiplied honours and 
repeated acclamations. As I had no idea 
such a thing would happen, I was downright 
thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, 
made the best return in my power. Just as 
I had Snished, some of the grand oliicers 
said so loud that I could hear, with a most 
comforting accent, " Very well, indeed I" 
which set me something to rights again. 

I have to-day corrected my 152nd page. 
My best good wishes to Mr. Aikeii. 
1 am ever, dear Sir, your much indebted 
humble servant, R. B. 



NO. XXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOK 
Edinburgh, January I5th, 1787. 
Madam. — Yours of the Dth current, which 
I am this moment honoured with, is a deep 
reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I 
will teU you the real truth, for I am miser- 
ably awkward at a lib, I wished to have 
written to Dr. .Moore before I wrote to you ; 
but, though every day since I received yours 
of December 30th, the idea, the wish to 
write to him, has constantly pressed on my 
thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set 
about it. I know his fame and character, 
and I am one of '■ the sons of httle men." 
To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, 
like a merchant's order, would be disgracing 
the little character I have ; and to write tha 
author of " The View of Society and Man- 
ners" a letter of sentiment — 1 declare ever^ 
artery runs cold at the thought. I shall 
try, however, to write to him to-morrow or 
next iay. His kind interposition in my 



rented embittering recollectioni whisper me 'behalf 1 have already experienced, a3 a sen. 

25* 




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280 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



tlenian waited on me the other day, on the 
p-ut of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by 
Hay of subscription for two copies of my 
next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and 
your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed 
from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as 
bh improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
judgment on your tiudiug fault with it, and 
applied for the opinion of some of the 
literati here who honour me with their 
critical strictures, and they all allow it to be 
proper. The song you ask I cannot recol- 
lect, and 1 have not a copy of it. I have 
not composed any thing on the great 
Wallace, except what you have seen in 
print, and the enclosed, which I will print in 
this edition. You will see I have mentioned 
some others of the name. When I com- 
posed my Vision long ago, I had attempted 
a description of Kyle, of which the addi- 
tional stanzas are a part as it originally 
stood. My heart glows with a wish to be 
able to do justice to the merits of the 
•' saviour of his country," which, sooner or 
Hater, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated 
with my prosperity as a poet : alas ! Madam, 
[ know myself and the world too well. I do 
lot mean any airs of afl'ccted modesty ; I 
qm willing to believe that my abilities 
deserve some notice ; but in a most en- 
lightened, informed age and nation, when 
poetry is and has been the study of men of 
the first natural genius, aided with all the 
powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company — ^to be dragged forth to the 
•■ull glare of learned and polite observation, 
nith all my imperfections of awkward rus- 
dcity and crude unpolished ideas in my 
head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dis- 
semble when I tell you I tremble for the 
consequences. The novelty of a poet in my 
obscure situation, without any of those 
advantages which are reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of 
(lay, has raised a partial tide of public 
notice which has borne me to a height, 
where I ars absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
abilities are inadequate to support me ; and 
too surely do I see that time when the same 
tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as 
far below the mark of truth. I do not say 
this in the riiiculous atl'cctation of self- 
abasement and modesty. I have studied 
mysilf, and know what ground I occupy; 
and however a friend or the world may differ 
from me in that particular, I stand for my 
own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the 



tenaciousness of piopriety. I mention this 
to you once for all, to disburden my iniin], 
and I do not wish to hear or say more about 
it. But, 

When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes, 
you will bear me witness, that when my 
bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood 
uuintoxicated, with the inebriating cup iu 
my hand, lool in j' forward with rueful resolve 
to the hastcimig time when the blow of 
calumny should dash it to the ground, with 
all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 

Your patronising me, and interesting 
yourself in my fame and character as a poet, 
I rejoice in — it exalts ihe in my own idea — 
and wlietiicr you can or cannot aid me ia 
my subscription, is a trifle. Has a paltry 
subscripiioii-bill any charms to the heart of 
a bard, compared with the patronage of the 
descendant of the immortal Wallace ? 

R. B. 



NO. XXXVl 



TO DR. MOORE. (16) 

Edinhunjli, Jan. 1787. 

Sir. — ^Irs . Dunlop has been so kind as to 
send me extracts of letters she has had from 
you, where you do the rustic bard the 
honour of noticing him and his works. 
Those who have felt the anxieties and 
solicitudes of authorship, can only know 
what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such 
a manner, by judges of the first character. 
Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with reverence ; 
only I am sorry they mostly came too late ; 
a peccant passage or two that I would cer- 
tainly have altered, were gone to the press. 

Tlie hope to be admired for ages, is, in by 
far the greater part of those even who are 
authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. 
For my part, my first ambition was, and still 
my strongest wish is, to please my compeer*, 
the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow 
me to be relished and understood. I am 
very willing to admit that I have some poe- 
tical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, 
either moral or poetical, are intimately ac- 
quainted with the classes of mankind among 
whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
seen men and manners in a ditferent phasia 
from what is common, which may assist 
originality of thought. Still I know very 
well the novelty of my character has by far 
the greatest share in the learned ami polite 
notice 1 have late' j had ; and iu a law ^uaj;* 



TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ. 



28) 



where Poi)e and Clunchill have raised the 
laugh, and Slicnstone and Gray drawn the 
tear ; where Thomson and IJeattie have 
painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and 
Collins described the heart, I am not vain 
enough to hope for distuiguished poetic 
fume. ' R. B. 



NO. XXXTII. 

TO THE REV. G. LAWTIIE, 

NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

Edhiburgli, Feb. 5th. 1787. 

Reverend and Dear Sir. — When I 
look at the date of your kind letter, my 
heart reproaches me severely with ingrati- 
tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I 
will not trouble you with any account, by 
way of apology, of my hurried life and dis- 
tracted attention ; do me the justice to 
believe that my delay by no means proceeded 
fr(jui want of respect. I feel, and ever shall 
feel for you, the mingled sentnnents for a 
friend, and reverence for a father. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul, for 
your friendly hints, though I do not need them 
so much as my friends are apt to imagine. 
You are dazzled with newspaper accounts 
and distant reports ; but, in reality, I have 
no great temptation to be intoxicated with 
the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract 
the attention of mankind a while ; to it I 
owe my present eclat ; but 1 see the time 
not far distant when the popular tide, which 
has borne nie to a height of which I am 
perhaps unworthy, shall recede with silent 
celerity, and leave me a barren waste of 
Band, to descend at my leisure to my former 
station. I do not say this in the affectation 
of modesty; I see the consequence is un- 
avoidable, ami am prepared for it. I had 
oeen at a good deal of pains to form a just, 
impartial estimate of my intellectual powers 
before I came here ; I have not added, since 
I came to Edinburgh, any thing to the 
account; and I trust 1 shall take every atom 
of it back to my shades, the coverts of my 
uimoticed early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, 
I have found what I would have expected 
in our friend, a clear head and an excellent 
heart. 

By far <he most agreeable hours I spend 
in ICdnibnrgh, must be placed to the accomit 
of Miss Ijiwrie and her piano-forte. I can- 
not help repeating to you and Mrs. Lawrie 
a compliment thi't Mr. Mackenzie, the 



celebrated " Man of Feeling," paid to IMisj 
Lawrie, the other night, at the concert. ) 
had come in at the interlude, and sat down 
by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not 
very distant, and went up to pay my 
respects to her. On my return to Mr. 
Mackenzie, he asked me who she was ; I 
told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend 
friend of mine in the west country. He 
returned, there was something very striking, 
to his idea, in her appearance. On my 
desiring to know what it was, he was 
pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the 
elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with 
all the sweet simplicity of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates 
of St. Margaret's, I am, my dear Sir, yours 
most gratefully, Robert Burns. 



iro. XXXVIII. 



TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, Eso. 

ORANGEFIELB. 

Edinhunjh, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — I suppose the devil is so 
elated witii his success with you, that he is 
determined, by a coup cle main, to complete 
his purposes on you all at once, in making 
you a poet. I broke open the letter you 
sent me — hummed over the rhymes — and as 
I saw they were extempore, said to myself, 
they were very well ; but when I saw at ihs 
bottom a name that I shall ever value with 
grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but uaething 
s[iak." I was nearly as much struck as the 
friends of Job, of atiiiction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days 
and seven nights, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and 
as soon as my wonder-scared imagination 
regained its consciousness, and resumed its 
functions, I cast about what this mania of 
yours might portend. My foreboding ideas 
had the wide stretch of possibility; and 
several events, great in their magnitude, and 
important in their consecpieuces, occurred to 
my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or 
the crushing of the Cork rumps — a ducal 
coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the 
Protestant interest — or St, Peter's keys ts 
* * * * 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentle- 
man with my Latin, in " auld use and 
wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took 
uie uj uie uiUid today, and interested him- 




(Mm4 




SS2 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



eelf in my concerns, with a goodness like 
that benevolent being whose image he so 
richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the 
immortality of the soul than any that phi- 
losophy ever produced. A mind like his 
can never die. Let tlie worshipful squire 
H. L., or the reverend Mast. J. M. go into 
their primitive nothing. At best, tliey are 
but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
them strongly tinged with bituminous 
particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my 
Lioble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of 
magnanimity, and the generous throb of 
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye 
at "the war of elements, the wreck of 
matter, and the crash of worlds." R. B. 



RO. XXXIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, February I5th, 1787. 

Sir. — Pardon my seeming neglect in 
delaying so long to acknowledge tlie honour 
you have done me, in your kind notice of me, 
January 2ord. Not mauy months ago I 
knew no other employment than following 
the plough, nor could boast any thing higher 
than a distant acquaintance with a country 
clergyman. Mere greatness never era- 
barasses rae ; I have nothing to ask from the 
great, and I do not fear their judgment ; 
but genius, polished by learning, and at its 
proper point of elevation in the eye of the 
world, this of late I frequently meet with, 
and tremble at its approach. I scorn tlie 
affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- 
conceit. That I have some merit, I do not 
deny ; but I see with frequent wringings of 
heart, that the novelty of my character, and 
the honest national prejudice of my country- 
men, have borne me to a height altogether 
untenable to my abilities. , 

For the honour Miss Williams has done 
me, please, Sir, return her in my name my 
most grateful thanks. I have more than 
once thought of paying her in kind, but have 
hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless des- 
pondency. I had never before heard of 
her ; but the other day I got her poems, 
which, for several reasons, some belonging to 
the head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I 
have little pretensions to critic lore ; there 
are, I think, two characteristic features in 
her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of 
native genius, and the querulous, sombre 
tenderness of " time-settled soirow."' 

I only know what pleases me, often with- 
■»ut being able to tell why. R. B. (17) 



so. XL. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1/87. 

]\Iy Honourkd Friend. — I will soon 
be with you now, in guid black prent — in a 
week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, 
against my own wish, to print subscribers' 
names ; so if any of my Ayr friends have 
subscription bills, they must be sent into 
Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done 
by an eminent engraver, and if it can be 
ready in time, I will appear in my book, 
looking, like all other /oo/«, to my title-page. 
R. B. 



TO MR. WILUAM DUNBAR. (IS.; 
Lawn Market, Monday Morning, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — In justice to Spenser, I must 
acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in 
the language could have been a more agree- 
able present to me ; and in justice to you, 
allow me to say. Sir, that I have not met 
with a man in Ethuburgh to whom I would 
so willingly have been indebted for the gift. 
The tattered rhymes 1 herewith present you, 
and the handsome volumes of Spenser 
for which I am so much indebted to you< 
goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion 
to one another ; but be that as it may, mj 
gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a 
mark of esteem as yours. 

The time is approaching when I shall re- 
turn to my shades ; and I am afraid my 
numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so 
tender a construction, that they will not 
bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the 
few that 1 could wish of a more robust con- 
stitution. It is indeed very probable tliat 
when I leave this city, we part never more 
to meet in this sublunary sphere ; bnt I 
have a strong fancy that in some future 
eccentric planet, the comet of happier sys- 
tems than any with which astronomy is yet 
acquainted, you and I, among the harum- 
scarum sons of imagination and whim, with 
a hearty shake of a hand, a metajihor and a 
laugh, shall recognise old acquaintance : 

Where wit may sparkle all its raya, 
Uncurst with caution's fears ; 

That pleasure, basking in the blaae, 
Rejoice ioi endless years. 

I have the honour to be, with the warm- 
est sincerity, diar Sir, <S'c. R. B. 



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LETTER TO 



283 



NO. XLIJ. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh, Fehrumy, 1787. 

My Lord.— I wanted to purchase a pro* 
file of your lordship, which I was told was to 
be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see 
tliat a blundering painter has spoiled a 
" hnman face divine." The enclosed stanzas 
1 intended to have written below a pictin-e or 
protile or your lordship, could I have been 
80 happy as to procure cue with any thing 
of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I 
wanted to have something like a material 
object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it 
in my power to say to a friend, there is my 
noble patron, my generous benefactor. Al- 
low me, my lord, to publish these verses. I 
conjure your lordship, by the honest throe 
of gratitude, by the generous wish of bene- 
volence, by all the powers and feelings which 
compose the magnanimous mind, do not 
deny i»e this petition. I owe much to your 
lordship ; and, what has not in some other 
instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. 
I trust I have a heart as independent as your I 
lordship's, than which I can say nothing 
more : and I would not be beholden to 
favours that would crucify my feelings. 
Your dignified character in life, and manner 
of supporting that character, are flattering to 
my pride ; and I would be jealous of the 
purity of my grateful attachment, where I 
was under the patronage of one of the much- 
favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his 
patrons, particularly when they were names 
dear to fame, and Ulustrious in their coun- 
try : allow me, then, my lord, if you think 
the verses have inti-insic merit, to tell the 
world how much I have the honour to be, 
your lordship's highly indebted, and ever 
grateful humble servant, R. B. 



NO. XLIII. 



TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH, 

SfUDENT IN PHYSIC, GLASGOW COLLEGE. 

Edinburgh, March 2lst, 1787. 

My Ever Dear Old Acquaintance. 
— I was equally surprised and pleased at 
your letter, though I dare say you will 
think, by my delaymg so long to write to 
you, that I am so drowned in the intoxica- 
tion of go«vl fortune aa to be iudiffereu t to 



old, and once dear conitsions. The truth 
is, I was determined to w rite a good letter, 
full of argument, amplification, erudition, 
and, as Bayes says, ali "lat. I thought of 
it, and thought of it, and by my soul I could 
not ; and, lest you shovdd mistake the cause 
of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. 
Don't give yourself credit, though, that the 
strengtli of your logic scares me : the truth 
is, 1 never mean to meet you on that ground 
at all. You have shown me one thing which 
was to be demonstrated: that strong pride 
of reasoning, with a little affectation of sin- 
gidarity, may mislead the best of hearts. I 
likewise, since you and I were first ae- 
quainted, in the pride of despising, old 
women's stories, ventured in the "daring 
path Spinosa trod;" but experience of the 
weakness, not the strength of human powers, 
made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, 
"The old man with his deeds," as when we 
were sporting about the " Lady. Thorn." I 
shall be four weeks here yet at least, and so 
I shall expect to hear from you; welcome 
sense, welcome nonsense. I am, with the 
warmest sincerity, yours, &c., K B. 



KO. XLIV. 

TO 



ON fergusson's headstone, 

Edinburgh, March, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — You m.w think, and 
too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrate- 
ful fellow, having received so many repeated 
instances of kindness from you, and yet 
never putting pen to paper to say "thank 
you"; but if you knew what a devd of a life 
my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart wo\dd think yourself too 
much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing 
in the whole frame of man which seems to 
be so unaccountable as that thing called 
conscience. Had the troublesome, yelping 
cur powers sufficient to prevent a mischief, 
he might be of use ; but at the beginnuig 
of the business, his feeble efforts are to the 
workings of passion as the infant frosts of 
an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are 
the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed 
over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows 
us with the feelings of ihe damned. 

I have enclosed you by way of expiation, 
som'3 verses and- prose, th»f, iif they merit a 




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ii>:in!ii:iiiiiiiiii,in<iin;iii 




234 



CORRESPONDEN'CE OP BUENS, 



place in your tru^j entertaining miscellany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as fol- 
lows : — 

"HERE LIES ROBERT EERGUSSON, 

POET. 

Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16tli 

October, 1774. 

"Nosculptnred marble here, nor pompons lay, 
'No storied urn, nor aniniatfd bust;' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.' " 

On the other side of the stone is ts fol- 
lows : — 

" By special grant of the managers to 
Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this 
b<inal-place is to remain for ever sacred to 
to the memory of Robert I'ergussou." 



Session-house tvUJiin the kirk of Cmiowjate, 
the Iweiili/second day of Febrimry, one 
thousand seven hundred eiyhty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and 
Kirk-yard funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
pioduccd a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date tlie (jth current, which was read and 
a))pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows : — 

"To the honourable bailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. — Gentienien, I am sorry to be 
told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, 
the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose 
talents for ages to come will do honour to 
our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard 
among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and un- 
known. 

Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to 
shed a tear over the ' narrow house' of the 
bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due 
to Fergusson's memory — a tribute I wish to 
have the honour of paying. 

I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit 
nie to lay a simple stone over his revered 
ashes, to remain an unalienable property to 
his deathless fame. 1 have the honour to be, 
gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic 
subscribitur) Robert Burns." 

Therefore the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested mo- 
tion of i\Ir Burns, and the propriety of his 
request, did, and hereby do, unan-mously, 
grant power and liberty to the said Rob^j-t 



Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of 
the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up 
and preserve the same to his memory in all 
time coming. Extracted forth of the recoidi 
of the managers, by 

William Sprott, Clerk 



NO. XLV. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My Lord. — The honour your lordship 
has done me, by your notice and advice ia 
yours of the 1st histant, I shall ever grate- 
fully remember : — 

Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to 

boast. 
They best can give it who deserve it most. 

Your lordship touches the darling chord 
of my heart, when you advise me to tire my 
muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. 
I wish for nothing more than to make a 
leisurely pilgrimage through my native coun- 
try ; to sit and muse on those once hard- 
contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, 
saw her bloody lion borne through broken 
ranks to victory and fame ; and catching the 
inspiration, to pour the deathless names in 
song. But, my lord, in the midst of these 
enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry 
moral-looking phantom stride* acros? my 
imagination, and pronounces these emphatii' 
words : — 

"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, 
I do not come to open the ill- closed wounds 
of your follies and misfortunes, merely to 
give you pain : I wish through these wound? 
to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart 
I will not mention how many of my salutary 
advices you have despised ; I have given you 
line upon line and precept upon precept; and 
while I was chalking out to you the straight 
way to wealth and character, with audacious 
effrontery you have zigzagged across the 
path, contemning me to my face : you know 
the consequences. It is not yet three inontlis 
since home was so hot for you that yen were 
on the wing for the western shore of the 
Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide 
your misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it 
in your power to return to the situation of 
your forefathers, will you follow these will- 
o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they 
bring you once more to the brink of ruiii ? 
I grant that the utmost ground you can oc- 
cupy is but half a step from the veriest 
poverty ; but stiU it is half a step fcou itr 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 



28S 



If ah that I can urge be ineffectual, let her 
« ho seldom calls to you in vain, let the call 
cf pride prevail with you. You know how 
you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppres- 
Kon : you know how you bear the galling 
bnecr of contumelious greatness. I hold you 
out the conveniences, the comforts of life, 
independence and character, on the one 
hand ; I tender you servility, dependence. 
Bad wretchedness, on the other. I will not 
insult your understanding by bidding you 
make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must 
return to my humble station, and woo my 
rustic muse, in my wonted way, at the 
plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops 
of life warm my heart, gratitude to that 
dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, 
tnd gratitude to those her distinguished 
tons who have honoured me so much with 
their patronage and approbation, shall, while 
stealing through my humble shades, ever 
distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
draw forth the swelUng tear. R. B. 



NO. XLVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Edinhurgh, March 22nd, 1787. 

Madaji. — I read your letter with watery 
eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had 
scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my 
own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pa- 
tronised, befriended by you. Your friendly 
advices, I will not give them the cold name 
of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I 
have made some small alterations in what I 
before had printed. I have the advice of 
some very judicious friend among the literati 
here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking 
for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, 
to whom T owe more than to any man, does 
me the honour of giving me his strictures ; 
L'is hints, with respect to impropriety or 
indelicacy, I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you 
no light. It is all 

Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 

Was roH'd together, or had tried his beams 

Athwart the gloom profound. 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by 
far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve 
It is my most exalted ambition. Scottish 
«cenes and Scottish story are the themes I 



could wish t3 s.ng. I hare no dearer aim 
than to have it in my power, unplagued with 
the routine of busiiieas, for which. Heaven 
knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit on 
the fields of her battles, to wander on the 
romantic banks of her rivers, and to muse 
by the stately towers or venerable ruins, 
once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts, "' 
have dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time 
to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged 
mother to care for, and some other bosoiu 
ties perhaps equally tender. Where the 
individual only suffers by the consequences 
of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or 
folly, he may be excusable— nay, shining 
aliilities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
may half sanctify a heedless character ; but 
where God and nature have intrusted the 
welfare of others to his care — where the 
trust is sacred, and the ties are dear — that 
man must be far gone in selfishness, or 
strangely lost to reflecti()n, whom these con- 
nexions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship; 
with that sum I intend, so far as I may be 
said to have any intention, to return to my 
old acquaintance, the plough, and, if I can 
meet with a lease by which I can live, to 
commence farmer. I do not intend to give 
up poetry ; being bred to labour secures mg 
independence, and the muses are my chief, 
sometimes have been my only enjoyment. 
If my practice second my resolution, I shall 
have principally at heart the serious business 
of life ; but while following my plough, Ot 
building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure 
glance to that dear, tJiat only feature of my 
character, which gave me the notice of my 
country, and the patronage of a ^Vallace 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you 
the bard, his situation, and his views, native 
as they are iu his own bosom. K B. 



NO. XLVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, April 15th, I?"?. 

Madam. — There is an affectation of 
gratitude which I dislike. The periods of 
Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide 
a selfish heart. For my part. Madam, I 
trust I have too much pride for servility 
and too little prudence for selfislme*^ i 




IHlpninmini 







288 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



have this moment broken open your letter, 
but 

Kude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — • 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine 
speeches and hunted figures. I shall just 
(ay my hand on ray heart and say, I hope I 
c-hall ever have the truest, the warmest sense 
of your goodness. 

I come abroad, in print, for certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually 
attend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you 
that I was paid before for Dr. jMoore's and 
Jliss Williams's copies, through the medium 
of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but 
that we can settle when I have the honour 
of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith (19) was just gone to London 
the moruiug before I received your letter to 
hun. R. B. 



MS). XL7III. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Edinburgh, April, 23rd 1787. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one 
you mentioned to Mrs. Diuilop. I am ill 
skilled in beating the coverts of imagina- 
tion for metaphors of gratitude. I thank 
yo". Sir, for the honour von have done me, 
and to my latest hour will warmly remember 
it. To be highly pleased with your book is, 
what I have in common with the world, but 
to regard these volumes as a mark of the 
author's friendly esteem, is a still more 
supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of tea 
days or a fortnight, and, after a few pilgrim- 
ages over some of the classic ground of 
Caledonia, Cowden Knowes, Banks of 
Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shall return to my 
rural shades, in all likelihood never more to 
quit them. 1 have formed many intimacies 
and friendships here, but I am afraid they 
are all of too tender a construction to bear 
carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the 
rich, the great, the fasliionable, the polite, I 
have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid 
r&y meteor appearance will by no means 
entitle me to a settled correspondence with 
f.ny of you, who are the permanent lights of 
genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss 
Williams. If once this tangent flight of 
tame were over, and I were returned to my 
trouted leisurely motion in my old circle, J 



may probably endeavour to return hei poel?« 
compliment in kind. R. B. (20) 



NO. XLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Ediniurgh, April SOtJi, 1787. 

Your criticisms. Madam, I under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to 
have pleased you better. You are right in 
your guess that I am not very amenable to 
counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have 
so flattered those who possessed the adven- 
titious qualities of wealth and power, that I 
am determined to flatter no created being, 
either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, 
critics, &c., as all these respective gentry do 
by my bardsliip. I know what I may expect 
from the world by and bye — illiberal abuse, 
and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy. Madam, that some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your 
particular approbation. For my " Dream," 
which has unfortunately incurred your lojal 
displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to 
have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, io 
its defence iu person. R. li. 



N«. L. 

TO JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDITOB O? THE SCOTS MUSICAT* 

MUSEUM. 

Lawnmarkct, Friday Noon, 
May 'drd, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I have sent you a song never 
before known for 'your collection ; the air by 
M'Gibbon, but I know not the author of the 
words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. 

Farewell, my dear Sir ! I wished to hava 
seen you, but I have been dreadfully 
throng (21), as I march to-morrow. (22) 
Had my acquaintance with you been a bttle 
older, I would have asked the favour of your 
correspondence, as I have met with few 
people whose company and conversatioa 
gave me so much jileasure, because I have 
met with few wliose sentiments are so con- 
genial to my own. 

When Dunbar and you meet, tell him tha* 
I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hang, 
iug somewhere about my heart. 

Keep the original of this song tiU we m^st 
again, whenever that may be. R. B, 







TO MR. PinSON. 



287 



NO. LI. 

TO TBE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR, 

Lewnmarket, Edinburgh, 
May Zrd, 1/87. 

• Rev. and much-Respected Sir. — I 
leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
eoukl not go without troubhng you with 
half a hne, sincerely to thank you for the 
kindness, patronage and friendship you 
have shown me. I often felt the embarrass- 
ment of my singular situation ; drawn forth 
from the veriest shades of life to the glare 
of remark, and honoured by the notice of 
those illustrious names of my country, whose 
works, while they are applauded to the end 
of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of 
my appearance in the world might attract 
notice, and honour me with the acquaintance 
of the permanent lights of genius and litera- 
ture, those who are txvXy benefactors of the 
immortal nature of man, I knew very w^ell 
that my utmost merit w as far unequal to the 
task of preserving that character when once 
the novelty was over ; I have so made up my 
mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, 
will not surprise me in my quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of 
Beugo's work (23) for me, done on Indian 
paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with 
what heart-warm gratitude I am, &c. 

K. B. (24) 



TO WnjJAM CREECH, Esq., 
EDINBURGH. 

Selkirk, May I3th, 1787. 

My Honoured Friend. — The enclosed 
I have just wrote (25), nearly e.xtempore, in 
k solitary inn in Selkipk, after a miserably 
wet day's riding. I have been over most of 
East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 
Selkirk shires, and next week I begin a tour 
through the north of England. Yesterday 
I dmed with Lady Harriet, sister to my 
noble patron (26), Quern Deus conservet ! 
I would write till I would tire you as much 
with dull prose, as I daresay by this time 
you are with wretched verse; but I am 
jaded to death ; so, with a grateful farewell, 
1 have the honour to be, good Sir, yours 
sL-Mierely, B. B. 



MO. LIII. 

TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

Edinbimjh, VlWt. 

My Dear Friend. — If once I were 
gone from this scene of hurry and dissipatioH, 
I promise myself the pleasure of that corres- 
pondence being renewed which has been so 
long broken. At present I have time for 
notliing. Dissipation and business engross 
every moment I am engaged in assisting 
an honest Scotch enthusiast (27), a friend of 
mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it 
into his head to publish a collection of all 
our songs set to music, of which the words 
and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you 
will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly 
to my taste. I have collected, begged, bor- 
rowed, and stolen, all the songs I could 
meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and 
music, I beg from you immediately, to go 
into his second number — the first is alreacly 
published. I shall show you the first num- 
ber when I see you in Glasgow, which will 
be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as 
to send me the song in a day or two — you 
cannot imagine how much it will oblige ms. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruiksiiank's, 
St. James's Square, New Tov/a, Edinburgh. 
R. B. 



2R 



TO MR PATISON, BOOKSELLEIL 

PAISLEY. 

Berry-ioell, near Bunse, 
May nth, 1787. 
Dear Sir. — I am sorry I was out of 
Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to 
the classic scenes of this country, when I 
was favoured with yours of the 11th instant, 
enclosing an order of the Paisley Banking 
Company on the Royal Bank, for twenty-two 
pounds sevm shillings sterliug, payment in 
full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies 
of my book I sent you. According to your 
motions, I see you will have left Scotland 
before this reaches you, otherwise I would 
send you " Holy Willie " with all my heart. 
1 was so hurried that I absolutely forgot 
several things I ought to have minded: — 
among the rest, sending books to Mr. Cowan ; 
but any order of yours will be answered at 
Creech's shop. You will please remember 
that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is 
Creech's profit; but tliose who Iv-ve sub- 
ecribed, though their names have be«c 



288 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



aeglected in the printed list, which is very 
incorrect, are sujiplied at the subscription 
price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I 
intend to go to London ; and I think Mrs. 
Fame is verj' idle to tell so many lies on a poor 
poet. When you or Mr. Cowan write for 
copies, if you should want any, direct to Mr. 
Hill, at Mr. Creech's shop (28), and I write 
to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either of 
your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's first clerk, 
and Creech himself is presently in London. 
I suppose I shall have the pleasure, against 
your return to Paisley, of assuring you how 
much I am, dear Sir, your obliged, humble 
servant, R- B- 



iro. I.T. 

TO MR. W. NlCOIi 

MA&TER OF THE HIGH SCHOOIj, EDIN- 
BURGH. 

Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 

Kind Honest-hearted Wxllie — I'm 
sitten down here, after seven and forty miles 
ridni', e'en as forjesket and forniav/'d as a 
forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' 
my land-lowper-like stravaguin sin' the sor- 
rowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted 
wi' Auld Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- 
yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland 
and England, as teugh and birnie as a very 
devil wi' me. It's true she's as poor's a 
sangmaker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper- 
taipers when she taks the gate, first like a 
lady's gentle-woman in a minuwae, or a hen 
on a het girtUe ; but she's a yauld, poutherie 
girran for a' that, and has a stomach like 
Willie Stalker's meere, that wad hae di- 
geested tumbler-wheels — for she'll whip me 
«ff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a 
down-sittin, and ne'er fash her thumb. 
When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her 
crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she 
beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour 
the tightest. I could wager her price to a 
threttie pennies, that for twa or three wooks 
ridin' at fifty mile a-day, the deil-sticket a five 
gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn 
could cast saut on her tail. (29) 

I hae dander'd o\iTe a' the kintra frae 
Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' 
mony a gnid fallow, and mony a weelfar'd 
hizzie. I met wi' twa dink, quines in par- 
ticular, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass 
— baith, braw and bonnie ; the tither was a 
elean-shankit, straught, tight, weel-far'd 
Winch, as bi\ the's a lintwhite on a flowerie 



thorn, and as sweet and modest's a new 
blawn plum-rose in a hazle shaw. Thej 
were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and 
onie ane o' them had as muckle smedduni 
and rumblegiimption as the half o' some 
presbytries that you and I baith ken. They 
play'd me sick a deil o' a shavie, that 1 
daur say, if my harigals were turn'd out, ye 
wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the 
mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but 
God forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouri- 
ously bitchify'd the day, after kail-time, that 
I can hardly stoiter bot and ben. 

My best respecks to the guid\vife and a' 
our common friens, especially Mr; and Mrs. 
Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o* 
Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast 
be to tlie fore, and the branks bide lude, 
Guid be wi' you, Wilhe ! Amen ! R. B. 



TO WILLIAM NICOL, Esq. 

Auchtertyre (30), June, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — I find myself very com- 
fortable here, neither oppressed by ceremony, 
nor mortified by neglect. Lady Augusta is 
a most engaging woman, and very happy in 
her family, which makes one's outgoings and 
incomings very agreeable. I called at Jlr. 
Ramsay's of Auchtertyre (31), as I came up 
the country, and am so delighted with him, 
that I shall certainly accept of his invitation 
to spend a day or two with him as I return. 
I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 

Make my kind compliments to Mr. and 
Mrs. Cruikshank and iVIrs. Nicol, if she ia 
returned. I am ever, dear Sir, your deeply 
indebted R. B. 



MO. Vfll. 

TO MR. W. NICOI^ 

MASTSR OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDIN- 
BURGH. 

Mauchline, June 18, 1787. 

My Dear Friend. — I am now arrived 
safe in my native country, after a very agree- 
able jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all 
my friends well. I breakfasted with your 
grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith j 
and was highly pleased both with the cordial 
welcome he gave me, and his most excelleu< 
appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Jliller at Dals^^^D 



<fev 




TO MR. JOHN KICHMOND. 



289 



top, aid am to nieet Jum again in August. 
From my view of tlie lands, and his reception 
if my bardship, my hopes in that business 
•re rather mended; but still they are but 
Blender. 

I am quite charmed %nth Dumfries folks: — 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is 
a man whom I shall ever gratefully remem- 
ber; and his wife— guid forgie me ! 1 had 
almost broke the tenth commandment on 
her account. Simplicity, elegance, good 
sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, 
kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
manner and heart : in short^but if I say 
one word more about her, I shall be directly 
in love with her. 

1 never, my friend, thought mankind very 
capable of anything generous; but the state- 
liness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and 
the civility of my plebeian brethren (who 
perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I 
returned home, have nearly put me out of 
conceit altogether with my species. I have 
bought a pocket Jtilton, which I carry per- 
petually about with me, in order to study 
the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, 
the intrepid, unyielding independence, the 
desperate daring, and noble detiance of hard- 
ship in that great personage, Satan. 'Tis 
true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am 
afraid the star that hitherto has shed its 
malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my 
zenith, — that noxious planet, so baneful in 
its influences to the rhyming tribe, — I much 
dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. 
Misfortune dodges the path of human hfe ; 
the poetic mind finds itself miserably de- 
ranged in, and unfit for the walks of busi- 
ness ; add to all, that thoughtless follies and 
hair-brained whims, like so many ignes fatui 
eternally diverging from the right line of 
sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching 
blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor 
heedless bard, till pop, " he falls like Lucifer, 
never to hope again." God grant that this 
may be an unreal picture with respect to me! 
but should it not, 1 have very little depend- 
ence on mankind. I will close my letter with 
this tribute my heart bids me pay you — 
the many ties of acquaintance and friendship 
which I have, or think I have in life, I have 
felt along the lines, and damn them, they are 
almost all of them of such frail contextu-e, 
<that I am sure they would not stand the 
Dreath of the least adverse breeze of fortune; 
but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with 
confidence for the apostolic love that shall 
wait on me " through good report and bad 
report " — the love which Solomon eniphati- 
oaily says " ia strong as death." My com- 



pliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle oi 
our common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the 
latter end of July. B, B. 



WO. Lvm, 

TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. (32) 

ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, EDINBURGH. 

Auchtertyre, June, 1787. 

I HAVE nothing, my dear Sir, to WTite to 
you, but that 1 feel myself exceedingly com- 
fortably situated in this good family — just 
notice enough to make me easy but not to 
embarrass me. I was storm-staid two days 
at the foot of the Ochill Hills, with Mr. Tait 
of Herveyston and Mr. Johnston of Alva, 
but was so well pleased that 1 shall certainly 
spend a day on the banks of the Devon as I 
return. I leave this place I suppose on 
^'^'ednesday, and shall devote a day to Mr. 
Ramsay, at Auchtertyre, near Stirling — a 
man to whose worth I cannot do justice. 
My respectful kind comjiliments to Mrs. 
Cruikshank, and my dear little Jeanie, and 
if you see Mr. Masterton, please remember 
me to him. I am -ver, my dear Sir, &c. 
R. B. 



KO. UX, 

TO JIR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

Mossgiel, July 7th, 1787. 

My Dear Richmond. — I am all im- 
patience to hear of your fate since the old 
confouuder of right and wrong has turned 
you out of place, by his journey to answer 
his indictment at the bar of the other world. 
He will find the practice of the court ao 
different from the practice in which he has 
for so many years been thoroughly hack- 
neyed, that his friends, if he had any con- 
nections trr\y of that kind, which 1 rather 
doubt, may well tremble for his sake. His 
chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stof d 
so firmly by him, to such good purpose, 
here, like other accomplices in robbery and 
plunder, will, now the piratical busines" is 
blown, in all probability turn king's evi- 
dences, and then the devil's bagpiper will 
touch him off "Bundle and go." 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg 
your pardon for all this ; if not, I know 
you will swear to every word I said about 
him. 

I have lately been rambling over by Dunv 



290 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



barton and Inverary, and running a drunken 
rnce on the side of Loch Lomond with e 
wild Higlilandraan ; his horse, wliich had 
never known tlie ornaments of iron or 
leather, zigzagged across before my old 
spavin'd hunter, whose name is Jenny 
Geddes, and down came the Higlilandraan, 
horse and all, and down came Jenny and 
my ladyship ; so I have got such a skinful 
of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at 
least four weeks before I dare venture on my 
journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has 
happened in IMauchline since you left it. I 
hope this will find you as comfortably 
situated as formerly, or, if Heaven pleases, 
more so ; but, at all events, I trust you wUl 
let me know, of course, how matters stand 
with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor con- 
solation to tell the world when matters go 
wrong but you know very well your con- 
flection and mine stands on a different 
footing. I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 
R. B. 



TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Eb«. 

MaucliUne, July, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — My life, since I saw you 
last, has been one continued hurry ; that 
eavage hospitality which knocks a man down 
with strong liquors, is the devil. I have a 
sore warfare in this world ; the devil, the 
world, and the flesh, are three formidable 
foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; 
the second, alas ! generally flies from me ; 
but the third is my plague, worse than the 
ten plagues of Egypt. 

I iiave been looking over several farms in 
this country ; one in particular, in Niihs- 
dale, pleased me so well, that, if my offer to 
the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence 
farmer at Whitsunday. If farming do not 
appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my 
other shift ; but this to a friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Monday 
morning ; how long 1 stay there is uncertain, 
but you will know so soon as I can inform 
you myself. However I determine, poesy 
must be laid aside for some time ; my mind 
has been vitiated \v\t\\ idleness, and it will 
take a good deal of effort to habituate it to 
the routine of business I am, my dear Sir, 
yours sincerelj, R, B. 



NO. Ml. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE. (33) 

Mauchline, July 23rd, 1787. 
My Dear Ainshe. — There is one thi:^ 
for which I set great store by you as a friei.d, 
and it is this, that 1 have not a friend upon 
eartU, besides yourself, to whom I can talk 
nonsense without forfeiting some degree ol 
his esteem. Now, to one like me, wha 
never cares for speaking any thing else bnt 
nonsense, such a friend as you is an invalua- 
ble treasure. I was never a rogue, but ha\e 
been a fool all my life ; and, in spite of all 
my endeavours, I see now plainly that I 
shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my 
heart to have met with such a fellow aa 
you, who, though you are not just such & 
hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never 
listen so much to the temptations of the 
devil, as to grow so very wise that you will 
in the least disrespect an honest fellow be- 
cause he is a fool. In short, I have set you 
down as the staff of my old age., when the 
whole list of my friends will, after a decent 
share of pity, have forgot me. 

Though in the morn comes sturt and strife, 

Yet joy may come at noon ; 
And I hope to live a merry merry life 

When a' thir days are done. 

Write me soon, were it but a few lines 
just to tell me how that good, sagacious 
man, your father, is — that kind dainty body 
your mother — that strapping chiel your 
brother Douglas — and my friend Rachel, 
who is as far before Rachel of old, as 
she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah 
R. B. 



MO. LXIl. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Stirling, August 2Gth, 1/37. 

My Dear Sir. — I intended to have 
written you from Edinburgh, and now 
write you from Stirling to make an excuse. 
Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with 
a truly original, bu<; very worthy man, a 
Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the High- 
school in Edinburgh. — -I left Auld Reekie 
yesterday morning, and have passed, besides 
by-excursions Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, 
Falkirk, and lere am I undoubtedly. This 
morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the 
Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
Wallace •. and two hours ago I said a ittvtat 




^t§> 



ir.iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 




TO GAVIN HAAtlLTON, ESQ. 



2»\ 



piayer for old Caledonia over the hole in 
a lilue wliinstone, where Robert de Bruce 
fixed his royal standard on the banks of 
Baunodvburn ; and just now, from Stirling 
Castle, I have seen by the setting sun the 
glorious prospect of the windings of Forth 
through the rich carse of Stirling, and 
Bkirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. 
The crops are very strong, but so very late 
that there is no harvest except a ridge or 
two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have 
travelled from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce (34) and family all 
well. I will be at least three weeks in 
making my tour, as I shall return by the 
coast, and have many people to call for. 

My best compliments to Charles, our dear 
kinsman and fellow-saint; and Messrs. W. 
and H. Parker. I hope llughoc (35) is 
going on and prospering with God and Miss 
M'Causlin. 

If I could think on any thing sprightly, I 
should let you hear every other post ; but 
a dull, matter-of-fact business like this 
scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes the 
better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add 
this, that I am and ever shall be, my dear 
Sir, your obliged & B. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa. 

Stirliuff, AiKjust 2Sth, 1787. 

My Dear Sir— Here am I on my way 
to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, 
fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and 
am delighted with their appearance : richly 
waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no 
harvest at all yet, except in one or two places 
an old-wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I 
rode from this town up the meandering Devon's 
banks, to pay my respects to some Ayrshire 
folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we 
made a party to go and see the famous 
Caadron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the 
Devon, about five miles above Harvieston; 
and after spending one of the most pleasant 
days I ever had in my life, I returned to 
iStirling in the evening. Tliey are a family, 
Sir, though I had not had any prior tie — 
though they had not been the brother and 
listers of a certain generous friend of mine — 
I would never forget them. I am told you 
have not seen them these several years, so 
you can have very little idea of what these 
young folks are now. Your brother is as tall 
as you are, but slender rather than other- 

26 



wise; and I have t.ie satisfaction to inforni 
you that he is getting the better of thosd 
consumptive symptoms which I suppose you 
know were threatening him. His make, and 
particularly his manner, resemble you, but 
he will still have a finer face. (I put m the 
word 6^(7/, to please Mrs. Hamilton.) Good 
sense, modesty, and at the same time a just 
idea of that respect that man owes to man, 
and has a right in his turn to exact, are 
striking features in his character; and, what 
with me is the Alpha and Omega, he has a 
heart that miglit adorn the breast of a poet ! 
Grace has a good figure, and the look of 
health and cheerfulness, but nothing else 
remarkable in her person. I scarcely ever 
saw so striking a likeness as is between her 
and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin 
particularly. She is reserved at first ; but 
as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted 
with the native frankness of her manner, and 
the sterling sense of her observation. Of 
Charlotte 1 cannot speak in common terms 
of admiration : she is not only beautiful but 
lovely. Her form is elegant ; her features 
not regular, but they have the smile of 
sweetness and the settled complacency of 
good nature, in the highest degree ; and her 
complexion, now that she has happily re- 
covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss 
Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding 
to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. 
Donne's mistress : — 

Her pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost say her body thought. 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive 
of good sense, tenderness, and a noble 
mind. (36) 

I do not give you all this account, my 
good Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to re- 
proach you. Such relations the first peer in 
the realm might ov/n with pride ; then why 
do you not keep up more correspondence 
with these so amiable young folks ? I had 
a thousand questions to answer about you. 
I had to describe the little ones with the 
minuteness of anatomy. They were highly 
delighted when I told them that John (o7) 
was so good a boy, and so fine aschoeir, and 
that Willie was going on still very pretty : 
but I have it in commission to tell her from 
them that beauty is a poor, silly bauble 
without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had 
left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of 
meeting with Mrs. Chalmers ; only Lady 
Mackenzie, being rather a little alarmingly 
ill of a sore throat, somewhat marred cui 
eujoymeut. 








#fe>K| 



292 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



1 shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeka 
My most respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. Macken- 
zie. I siiall probably write him from some 
stu^e or other. I am ever. Sir, jours most 
gratefully, R. B. 



NO. MIT. 

TO MR. W.4.LKER, 

OP BLAIR ATHOLE. (38) 

Lwerness, September 5th, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — I have just time to 
write the foregoing (39), and to tell you that 
it was (at least most part of it) the effusion 
of a half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not 
mean it was extempore, for I have endea- 
voured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol's 
chat and the jogging of the chaise would 
allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as 
rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe 
to the noble family of Athole, of the first 
kind, I shall ever proudly boast — what I owe 
of the last, so help me God in my hour of 
need 1 1 shall never forget. 

The " little angel-band !" I declare I 
prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the 
Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine 
family-piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, 
the truly noble duchess (40), with her smiling 
little seraph in her lap, at the liead of the 
table — the lovely "olive plants," as the 
Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy 
mother — the beautiful Mrs. G — , the lovely, 
swet ;t Miss C, &c., I wish I had the powers 
of Guido to do them justice ! My Lord 
Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind in- 
deed : — Mr. Graham of Fintry's charms of 
conversatioa — Sir W.Murray's friendship: — 
in short, ths recollection of all that polite, 
agreeable company, raises &a honest glow in 
my bosom. R. B. 



TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinhurgli, I7th September, 1787. 

My Dear Brother. — I arrived here 
iafe yesterday evening, after a tour of 
twenty-two days, and travelling near 600 
miles, wiudhigs included. My farthest 
stretch was about ten miles beyond Inver- 
ness. I went through the heart of the 
Higlilands by Crief, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbaue, down the Tay, 



among cascades and Druidical circles of 
stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of 
Athole ; thence across Tay, and up one of 
his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, 
another of the Duke's seats, where I had ihe 
honour of spending nearly two days with his 
grace and family ; thence many miles 
through a wUd country among clitfs, grey 
with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, 
till I crossed Spey and went down the stream 
through Strathspey, — so famous in Scottish 
music (41), — Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family; and then 
crossed the country for Fort George, but 
called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient 
seat of Macbeth; there I saw the identical 
bed in which tratUtion says king Duncan « as 
murdered; lastly, from Fort George to In- 
verness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to 
Stonehive (42), where James Burness, from 
Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent 
two days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still ahve, and hale 
old women. John Caird, though born the 
same year with our father, walks as vigorously 
as I can ; — they have had several letters from 
his son in New York. W'ilham Brand is 
likewise a stout old fellow ; but further 
particulars I delay till I see you, which wili 
be in two or three weeks. The rest of my 
stages are not worth rehearsing ; warm as J 
was from Ossian's country, where I had seen 
his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns 
or fertile carses? I slept at the fiimous 
Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at 
Gordon Castle next day, with the duke, 
duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear 
farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 
My duty and many compliments from the 
north to my mother; and my brotherly 
compliments to the rest. I have been trying 
for a berth for William, but am not likely to 
be successful. Farewell. R. B. 



NO. IXVI. 



TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. (43) 

Sept. 26, 1737. 

I SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
songs ; I would not wait for the second 
number; I hate delays in little marks of 
friendship, as I hate dissimulation in the 
language of the heart. I am determined t» 




-^:) I :Q 



®'tf>^ 



iiiiiiiiiii!i;iiiiiiii!iHi;ii;iiii 




TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 



293 



pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if I 
could liit on some glorious old tScottii air, in 
number secoiid. (44) You will see a small 
attempt on a shred of paper in the book; 
but tliough Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
hi^'lily, I am not just satistieil with it myself. 
I iutend to make it a description of some kind; 
the whining- cant of love, except in real pas- 
sion, aiul by a masterly hand, is to me as 
insufferable as the preaching cant of old 
Father Snieaton, whig-miuister at Kilmaiirs. 
Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all 

tliat farrago, are just a Mauchliae , 

a senseless rabble. . 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old venerable author of "TuUoch- 
gorum," " John of Badenyon," &c. (45). I 
suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is 
by far the finest poetic compliment I ever 
got. I will send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, 
to wait ou Mr. jMiller about liis farms. Do 
tell that to Lady iMackenzie, that she may 
give me credit for a little wisdom. "I, 
\\isdom, dwell with Prudence." What a 
blessed fire-side ! How happy showld I be 
to pass a winter evening under their vene- 
rable roof ; and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or 
drink water-gruel with them ! With solemn, 
lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of 
phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for- 
nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion 
and folly 1 And what frugal lessons, as we 
straitened the fire-side circle, ou the uses of 
the poker and tongs I 

Jliss N. is very well, and begs to be 
remembered in the old way to you. I used 
all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourislies 
of the hand, and heart-melting modulation 
of periods in my power, to urge her out to 
Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric 
seems quite to have lost its effect on the 
lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day 
— but this is a " tale of other years :" — On 
my conscience I believe that my heart has 
been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitri- 
fied. I look on the sex with something like 
the admiration with which I regard the 
6tarry sky in a frosty December night. I 
admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
ship ; I am cluiinied with the wild but 
graceful eccentricity of their motions, and — 
wish them good night. I mean this with 
respect to a certain passion doutj'ai ea I'hoii- 
near d'etre un vmeruhle esclave : as for 
friendship, you and Charlotte have given me 
pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the 
world cannot give, nor take away," 1 hope, 
and wliich will ouf.last the heavens and the 
swth. E. B. 



NO, LXVII. 



TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER, 
Edinburgh, October 25, 1787. 

Reverend and Venerable Sik.^ 
Accept, in plain dull prose, my most 
sincere thanks for the best poetical compli- 
ment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as 
a poet, you have conjured up an airy demon 
of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities 
in your other capacity would be ill able to 
lay. I regret, and while I live I shall re- 
gret, that when I was in the north, I had 
not the pleasure of paying a younger 
brother's dutifid respect to the author of the 
best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tul- 
lochgorum's my Delight 1" The world may 
think slightingly of the craft of song-making, 
if they please; but, as Job says, " Oh that 
mine adversary had written a book!" — let 
them try. There is a certain something in 
the old Scotch songs, a wild happmess of 
thought and expression, which peculiarly 
marks them, not only from English songs, 
but also from the modern efforts of soiig- 
wrights, in our native manner and language. 
The only remains of this enchantment, these 
spells of the imagination, rest with you. 
Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was like- 
wise " owre cannie" — "a wild warlock" — ■ 
but now he sings among the " sous of the 
morning." 

I have often wished, and will certainly 
endeavour, to form a kind of common ac- 
quaintance among all the genuine sous of 
Caledonian song. The world, busy in low 
prQsaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; 
but " reverence thyself." The world is not 
our peers, so we challenge the jury. We 
can lash that world, and find ourselves a 
very great source of amusement and happi- 
ness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh 
just now, which claims your best assistance. 
An engraver in this town has set about col- 
lecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, 
with the music, that can be found. Songs, 
in the English language, if by Scotchmen, 
are admitted, but the music must all be 
Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are 
lending a hand, and the first musician in 
town presides over that department. I have 
been absolutely crazed about it, collecting 
old stanzas, and every information remaining 
respecting their origin, authors, &c., &a. 
This last is but a very fragment busiinr^s ; 
but at the end of his second immber — the 
first is already published — a small account 
will be given of the authors, particularly tfi 



HIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIillinilllHIiniilll!:!' 




'#^ 



ii<>miiiiiiii:iiiii:iiiiii;iiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiii>; 




COKRl^SPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



presen'e those of lavter times. Your three 
songs, "Tiillochgorum,"" John of Badenyoii," 
and ■' Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn," go in tliis 
second number. I was determined, before I 
got your letter, to write you, begging that 
you wouhl let me know where the editions 
of these pieces maj be fotuid, as you would 
wish them to continue in future times ; and 
if yuu would be so kind to this undertaking 
Bs send any songs, of your own or others, 
that you would think proper to publish, 
your name will be inserted among the other 
authors — "nill ye, will ye." One half of 
Scotland already give your songs to other 
authors. Paper is done. 1 beg to heai 
from you ; the sooner the better, as I leave 
Edinbiirgh hi a fortnight or three weeks. I 
am, with the wannest sincerity. Sir, your 
obhged humble servant, R. U. 



KO. Lxvm. 

TO JAMES HOY, Esq. 

GORDON CASTLE. (46) 

Edinhurrjli, October SO'A, 1787. 

Sir. — I ^ill defend my conduct in giving 
yon this trouble, on the best of Christian 
principles — " Whatsoever ye would that men 
siiouiii do unto you, do ye even so unto 
tliem." I shall certainly, among my legacies 
leave my latest curse to that unlucky pre- 
dicament which hurried — tore me away from 
Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of 
Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to Scotch mile 
periods, and damned to seven league para- 
graphs ; while Declension and Conjugation, 
Gender, Number and Tense, under the 
ragged banners of Dissonance and Disar- 
rangement, eternally rank against him m 
hostile array. 

Allow me. Sir, to strengthen the small 
claim I have to your acquaintance, by the 
following request. An engraver, James 
Johnson, in Edinburgh, has, not from mer- 
cenary views, but from an honest Scotch 
enthusiasm, set about collecting all our 
native songs, and setting them to music, 
particularly those that have never been set 
before. Clarke, the well-known musician, 
presides over the musical arrangement, and 
Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of 
Woodliouselee, and your humble servant to 
the utmost of his small power, assist in 
collect iiig tie old poetry, or sometimes, for 
a line lir, make a stanza when it has no 
iroT'is. The brats, too tedious to mention, 



claim a parental pang from my hardship. 1 
suppose it will appear in Johnson's seconJ 
number — the frst was published before my 
Rcqnaiiitance with him. My request is— 
" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen " is one intended 
for this number, and I beg a copy of liis 
Grace of Gordon's words to it, which you 
were so kind as to repeat to me. (47) You 
may be sure we won't prefix the author's 
name, except you like, though I look on it ai 
no small merit to this work that the names 
of so many of the authors of our old Scotch 
songs, names almost forgotten, will be in- 
serted. I do not well know where to write 
to you— 1 rather write at you ; but if you 
will be so obliging, immediately on receipt of 
this, as to write me a few lines, I shall per- 
haps pay you in kind, though not in quality. 
Johnson's terms are : — each number a hand- 
some pocket volume, to consist of at least 
a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the 
harpsichord, &c. Tiie price to subscribers, 
5s. ; to non-subsci'ibers, 63. He will have 
three numbers, 1 conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will 
be at Mr. William Cruikshank's, St James' 
Square, New Town, Edinburgh. I am. Sir, 
yours to command, H. B. 



NO. LXIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

GORDON CASTLE. 



Edinburgh, November Glh, 1737. 
Dear Sir. — I would have wrote you 
immediately on receipt of your kind letter 
but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem 
whispered to me that I ought to send you 
something by way of return. When a poet 
owes anything, particularly when he is in- 
debted for good offices, the payment tliat, 
usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed 
in which he is probably conversant — is 
rhyme. Johnson sends the books by iha 
fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose hi? 
most grateful thanks ; my return I intended 
should have been one or two poetic baga- 
telles which the world have not seen, or, 
perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. 
These I shall send you before I leave Edin- 
burgh. They may make you laugh a little, 
which, on the whole, is no bad way ot spend • 
ing one's precious hours and still more pre> 
clous breath ; at any rate, they will be, 
though a small, yet a very sincere, mark of 
my respectful esteem for a gentlemau whosa 




illlllll llllNllllllllllllllllllllilllllllllllllllllMlillllllllllllllili!lllllllllllll«inill« 




TO THE EAEL OF GLENCAIRN. 



298 



farther acquaintance I should look upon aa a 
peculiar obligation. 

The duke's song, independent totally of 
flis dukeship, charms me. There is I know 
not what of wild happiness of thought and 
expression peculiarly beautiful in the old 
Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old 
venerable Skinner, the author of " Tulloch- 
gorum," &c., and the late Ross, at Lochlee, 
of true Scottish poetic memory, are the 
only modern instances that I recollect, since 
Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor 
Bob Fergusson, went to the world of death- 
less existence and truly immortal song. The 
mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, 
would laugh at so serious a speech about an 
old song ; but as Job says, " Oh that mine 
adversary had written a book ! " Those who 
think tiiat composing a Scotch song is a 
trifling business, let them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper 
attention to the Christian admonition — 
" Hide not your candle under a bushel," but 
" Let your light shine before men." I could 
name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a 
devilish deal worse employed ; nay, I ques- 
tion if there are half a dozen better : per- 
haps there are not half that scanty number 
whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, 
happy, and I will say, glorious gift. I 
am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
B. B. 



TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Esa., 
EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Nov. 23, 1787. 

T BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make 
any appointment to take us to Mr. Ainshe's 
to-niglit. On looking over my engagements, 
constitution, present state of my health, 
some little vexatious soul concerns, &c., I 
lind I can't sup abroad to-night. I shall be 
in to-day till one o'clock, if you have a 
'eisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell 
you, that I find the idea of your friendship 
almost necessary to my existence. You 
assume a proper length of face in my bitter 
liours of blue-devilisra, and you luugh fully 
up to my highest wishes at ray good things. 
1 don't know, upon the whole, if you are 
cue of the first fidlows in God's world, but 
you vce so to me, I tell you this just nojjf, 
in tlie conviction that some inequalities'ift 



ray temper and manner may perhaps some- 
times make you suspect tliat 1 am not 
80 warmly as I ought to be your friend, 

R. B. 



NO. LXXI. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinhurgh, 1787. 

My Lord. — I know your lordship will 
disapprove of my ideas in a request I am 
going to make to you ; but I have weighed, 
long and seriously weighed, my situation, 
ray hopes and turn of mind, and am fully 
fixed to my scheme, if I can possibly effectu- 
ate it. I wish to get into the Excise : 1 aro 
told that your lordship's interest will easily 
procure me the grant from the commission- 
ers ; and your lordship's patronage and 
goodness, which have already rescued me 
from obscurity, wretchedness and exile, 
embolden me to ask that interest. You 
have likewise put it in my pouer to save tlie 
little tie of home that sheltered an aged 
mother, two brothers, and three sisters, from 
destruction. There, my lord, you have 
bound me over to the liigliest gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wTetched 
lease, but I think he will probably weather 
out the remaining seven years of it ; and 
after the assistance which I have given, and 
will give him, to keep the family together, I 
think, by my guess, I shall have rather 
better than two hundred pounds, and instead 
of seeking, what is almost impossible at 
present to find, a farm that 1 can certainly 
live by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge 
this sum in a banking-house, a sacred 
deposit, excepting only the calls of un- 
common distress or necessitous old age. 

T'liese, my lord, are my views : 1 hava 
resoh ed from the maturest deliberation ; 
and now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone 
unturned to carry my resolve into execution. 
Your lordship's patronage is the strength of 
my hopes; nor have 1 yet applied to any- 
body else. Indeed, my heart sinks within 
me at the idea of applying to any other of 
the great who have honoured me with their 
countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the 
heels of greatness with the impertinence 
of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much 
at the thought of the cold promise as the 
cold denial ; but to your lordship I have 
not only the honour, the comfort, but tlie 
pleasure of being your lordship's mucli 
obliged and deeply indebted humble servant, 
R. B. 



296 



CORKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. LXXII. 

TO CHARLES HAY, Esq., ADVOCATE, 

• (enclosing verses on the death of 
lord president.) (48) 

Sir. — The enclosed poem was written in 
coiiseqvience of your suggestion, last time I 
had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me 
an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but 
did not please me ; so it lay by, an dl-di- 
gested effort, till tlie other day that I gave 
it a critic brush. These kiud of subjects 
are much hackneyed ; and, besides, ti»e 
waiUngs of the rhyming tribe over the ashes 
of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out 
of ail character for snicerity. These ideas 
damped my muse's fire; however, I have 
done the best I could, and, at all events, it 
gives me an opportunity of declaring that I 
have the honour to be, Sir, your obliged 
humble servant, R. B. 



HO. LXXIII. 

TO MISS M N. 



Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, 
New Town, Edinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in 
the stony altitude of perplexed study for 
fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, 
bending over the intended card; my fixed 
eye hisensible to the very light of day 
poured around ; my pendulous goose-featlier, 
loaded with ink, hanging over the futiu'e 
letter, all for the important purpose of 
WTiting a complimentary card to accompany 
your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Green- 
land expression, lies at such chilly polar 
distance from the torrid zone of my con- 
stitution, that I cannot, for tlie very soul of 
me, use it to any person for whom I have 
the twentieth part of the esteem every 
one must have for you who knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I 
can give myself the pleasure of calling on 
you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some 
time about seven or after, I sliall wait on 
you for your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the hands 
of the proper connoisseur. The broken glass, 
likewise, went under review ; but deliberate 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger 
the whole fabric. I am, dear Madam, with 
all sincerity of enthusiasm, your very obedi- 
ent servant, R. B. 



NO. LXXIV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinhurgh, Nov. 21^ 1787. 

I HAVE one vexatious fault to tie kindly 
welcome well-filled sheet which I owe to 
your and Charlotte's (49) goodness — it con- 
tains too much sense, sentiment and good- 
spelling. It is impossible that even you 
iwo, whom I declare to my God I will give 
credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
are capable of attaining — it is impossible you 
can go on to correspond at that rate ; so 
like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they have made a good speech, I 
shall, after a few letters, hear no more of 
you. I insist that you shall write whatever 
comes first : what you see, what you read, 
what you hear, what you admire, what you 
disUke, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to 
fill up a corner, e'en put down a laiigli at 
full length. Now, none of your polite hints 
about flattery ; I leave th.^ to your lovers, 
if you have or shall have any ; though, thank 
Heaven, I have at last two girls who can be 
luxuriantly happy in their own minds and 
with one another, without that commonly 
necessary appendage to female bliss — a 

LOVE.K. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite 
resting-places for my soul in lier wanderings 
through the weary, thorny wilderness of this 
world. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the 
struggle : I glory in being a poet, and I 
want to be thought a wise man — I would 
fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. 
After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. 
■' Some folk liae a hantle o' fauts, and I'm 
but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Aflernoon. — To close the melancholy re- 
flections at the end of the last sheet, I sliall 
just add a piece of devotion, commonly 
known in Carrick by the title of the " Wab. 
ster's grace : " — 

Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are w^ 
Some say we he, and e'en sae do we ! 
Guid forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! 
Up aad to your looms, lads 1 R. B. 



NO. LXXV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12 1787 

I am here under the care of a surgeon, 
with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; 
and tlie tints of my mind vying with the 
livid horror preceding a midnight thuniie* 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 



297 



atojni. A drunken coaclimar. vas the cause 
of tlie first, and incomparably the lightest 
evil ; misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, 
«nd myself, have formed a " quadruple alli- 
ance " to guarantee the other. I got my fall 
on h'atm-day, and am getting slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, 
and am got through the five books of Moses, 
and half way m Joshua. It is really a glo- 
rions book. I sent for my book-binder to- 
day, and ordered him to get me an octavo 
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in 
to« II, and bmd it with all the elegance of his 
craft. 

1 would give my best song to my worst 
enemy— -I mean tlie merit of making it — to 
iia\e you and Cliarlotte by me. You are 
nuL;elic creatures, and would pour oil and 
wine into my wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the "Banks 
of the Devon," which present with my best 
wislies to Charlotte. The "Ochil-hills " (50) 
yon shall probably have next week for your- 
self. None of your fine speeches ! R. B. 



NO. LXXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 
Edinhunjh, Dec. l^th, 1787. 

I BEGIN this letter in answer to your's 
of the 17th current, which is not yet cold 
since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul 
is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. 
For the first time, yesterday I crossed the 
room on crutches. It would do your heart 
g'ood to see my Ijardship, not on my poetic, 
but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best 
leg with an air ! and with as much liihirity 
in my gait and countenance, as a May frog 
leaping across the newly harrowed riilge, 
enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, 
after the long-expected shower ! 

I can't say I am altogether at my ease 
when I see anywiiere in my path that mea- 
gre, squahd, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; 
aCLended, as he always is, by iron- fisted 
oppression and leering contempt ; but I 
have sturdily withstood his buffettings many 
a hard-laboured day already, and still my 
motto is — I DAKB ! My worst enemy is 
moi iiieme. I lie so miserably open to the 
inroads aud incursions of a mischievovis, 
light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under 
the banners of imagination, whim, caprice 
and pulsion ; and the heavy-armed veteran 
regniars of wisdom, prudence and fore- 
thought move so very, very slow, that I am 
almost Li\ a state of perpetual warfare, and. 



alas ! frequent defeat. There are just two 
creatures I would envy ; a horse in his wild 
state traversing the forests of Asia, or an 
oyster on some of the desert shores of 
Europe. The one has not a wish without 
enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor 
fear. R, B. 



KO. LXXVII. 

*T0 THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, Dec, 1787. 

M-j Dear Madam. — I just now have 
read yours. The poetic compliments I pay 
cannot be misunderstood. Tliey are neither 
of them so particular as to point you out to 
the world at large ; and the circle of your 
acquaintances will allow all I have said. 
Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, 
almost solel}', on your mental charms. Shall 
I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it^ 
Personal attractions. Madam, you have much 
above par ; wit, understanding and worth, 
you possess in the first class. This is a 
cursed flat way of telling you these truths, 
but let me hear no more of your sheepish 
timidity. I know the world a little. I know 
what they will say of my poeins — by second 
sight, I suppose — for I am seldom out in my 
conjectures ; and you may bebeve me, my 
dear IMadam, I would not run any risk ot 
hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. 
I wish to show the world tlie odds between 
a poet's friends and those of simple prose- 
men. More for your information, both the 
pieces go in. One of them, " Where braving- 
angry Winter's Storms," is already set — the 
tune in Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
cairny ; the other is to be set to an old 
Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection ot 
ancient Scots music; the name is "Ha a 
Chaillich air mo B/ieith." My treacherout 
memory has forgot every circumstance about 
Las Licas ; only, I think you mentioned 
them as being in Creech's possession. I 
shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song 
of " Somebody " will come too late — as I 
shall for certain leave town in a week for 
Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but 
there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town ; so any thing, wherever I 
am, will reach me. 

I saw yours to ; it is not too 

severe, nor did he tale it amiss. On the 
contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of 
being with you in the Christmas days. Mr. 

has given kru the invitation, and h« 

is determined to accept of it. Oh selfish' 




£98 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUR.NS. 



uess ! lie owns, in bis sober moments, that 
from his own \olatility of inclination, the 
circumstances in which he is situated, and 
his knowledge ()f his father's disposition, tiie 
whole affair is chimerical— yet he wili gratify 
an idle i)em:hant at the enormous, cruel 
txpensc, of perhaps ruiniup; the peace of the 
very woman for whom he professes tlie 
generous passion of love ! He is a gentle- 
man in his mind and manners — tunt pis! 
He is a volatile school-hoy — the heir of a 
man's fortune who well knows the value of 
two times t\\ o ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, 
before they should make the amiable, the 

lovely , the derided object of their 

purse-proud contempt ! 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 



recovery, because I really thought all was 
over with her. There are days of pleasure 
yet awaiting her : — 

As I cam hi by Glenap, 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was comiu.' (51) 

This day will decide my affairs with Creech. 
Tilings are, like myself, not what they ought 
to be ; yet better than what they appear 
to be. 

Heaven's Sovereign saves all but himself — 
Vhat hideous sight — a naked human heart. 

Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 
R. B. 



KO. LXXVIIl. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Ediabaryli, December, 1787. 

Sir. — Mr Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my 
very warm and worthy friend (5.2), has in- 
formed me how much you are pleased to 
interest yourself in my fate as a man, and 
(what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame 
as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, 
been patronised by those of your character 
in life, vhen 1 was introduced to their notice 
by * * * * * friends to them, and honoured 
acquaintances to me ; but you are the first 
gentleman in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart has interested him- 
self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am 
not master enough of the etiquette of these 
matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, 
whetiipr formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, 
ka 1 am couviiijed, from the light in which 



you kindly view me, that you will do uie 
the justice to believe this letter is not the 
manffiuvre of the needy, sliarping auih.ir, 
fastening on those in upper life who h juour 
him with a little notice of hiin and his work.?. 
Indeed, the situation of poets is generally 
such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, 
palliate that prostitution of heart and talents 
they have at times been guilty of. I du not 
think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary 
concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a 
careless, indolent inattention to economy i? 
almost inseparable from it ; then there inusl 
be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
out of the Ti'ay of those windfalls of fortune 
which frequently light on hardy impudence 
and foot-licking servility^ It is not easy to 
imagine a more helpless state than his whose 
poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and 
whose character as a scholar gives hiin suaie 
pretensions to the politessae of life — yet is 
as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven ray star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my 
ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have 
an independent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, aa 
to stoop to traduce tlie morals of such a one 
as I am, and so unhumauly cruel, too, as to 
meddle with that late most unfortunate, un- 
happy part of iny story. With a tear of 
gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth 
with which you interposed in behalf of my 
conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently 
the sport of whim, caprice and passion ; but 
reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow- 
creatures, I hope 1 shall ever preserve. I 
have no return. Sir, to make you for your 
goodness but one — a return which, I am pev« 
suaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your 
happiness, and every one of that lovely flock 
who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever 
calumny aim the poisoned shaft at tiieiii, 
may friendship be by to ward the blow ! 
R. B. 



MO. LXXIX. 

MISS MARGARET CHAOfERS. 

December, 1737. 

I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit 
more shall be decided about a farm in that 
couuty. I am rather hopeless m it,- bvt at 



TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



299 



mj brotlier ia an excellent farmer, and is, 
besides, an exceedingly prudent sober man 
(qualities which are only a younger brother's 
fortune in our family), I aiu determined, if 
my Dumfries business fail me, to remove into 
partnership with him, and at our leisure take 
aiiother farm in the neighbourhood. 

1 assure you I look for high compliments 
from you and Charlotte on this very sage 
instance of my unfathomable, incomprehen- 
o'.ble wisdom. — Talking of Charlotte I must 
tell her that I have, to the best of my 
power, paid her a poetic compliment now 
completed. The air is admirable ; true old 
Iliglilaud. It was the tune of a Gaelic 
song which an Inverness lady sang me when 
I was there ; I was so charmed with it, that 
I begged her to write me a set of it from her 
singing, for it had never been set before. I 
am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next 
number; so Charlotte and you need not 
spend your precious time in contradicting 
me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate, 
though I am convinced it is very well ; and, 
what is not always the case with compli- 
ments 10 ladies, it is not only sincere, but 
just. R. B. 



NO. LXXX. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS (53), 

ON READINa THE POEM OF THE SLAVE- 
TRADE. 

Edinbunjh, Bee, 1787. 

I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, 
80 all I can pretend to in that intricate art is 
merely to note, as I read along, what passages 
strike me as being uncommoidy beautiful, 
and where the expression seems to be per- 
plexed or faulty. 

The poem opens finely. Tliere are none 
of those idle prefatory lines which one may 
skip over before one comes to the subject. 
Verses 9th and 10th in particular, 

Where ocean's unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round, 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hur- 
ricane is likewise fine; and, indeed, beautiful 
as the poem is, almost all the similes rise 
decidedly above it. From verse olst to verse 
50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 
3iJih, "That foul drama deep with wrong," 
is nobly expressive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, 
is rather unworthy of the rest ; " to dare to 
feel," is an idea that I do not altogether like. 
The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 
46th verse to the 50th, is admirable. 



27 



Either my apprehension is dull, or there 
is something a little confused in the apos- 
trophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the ante- 
cedent to verses 57th and 58, but in ver.se 
5Sth the connection seems uugrammatical :— 

Powers • • • 

• • • • 

With no gradations mark'd their flight, 
But rose at once to glory's height. 

Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. 
Try it in prose. " Powers — their flight mar- 
ked by no gradations, but [the same power.-t] 
risen at once to the height of glory." like- 
wise, verse 53rd, " For this," is evidently 
meant to lead on the sense of the verses 
59th, 60th, 61st and 62iid; but let us try 
how the thread of connection runs — • 

For this • • • 

* * • • 
The deed of mercy, that embrace, 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record, and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name. 

I beg pardon if I misapprehend the matter, 
but th;s appears to me the only imp^- feet 
passage in the poem. The comparison of tlie 
sunbeam is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond 
is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. 
The thought. 

Virtue • • • 

• • • « 

Sends from her unsullied source. 

The gems of thought their purest force, 

is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from 
verse 81st to the 85th, that the " blest 
decree" is like the beams of morning ushering 
in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to 
pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 
85th to verse 108, is an animated contrast 
between the unfeeling selfishness of the op- 
pressor on the one hand, and the misery of 
the captive on the other. Verse 88th might 
perhaps be amended thus : — " Nor ever quil 
her narrow maze." We are said to pass a 
bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th is 
exquisitely beautiful : — 

They, whom wasted blessings tire. 

Verse 110th is, I doubt, a clashing of meta- 
phors; "to load a span" is, I am afraid, an 
unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, 
" Cast the universe in shade," is a fine idea. 
From the 115th verse to the 142nd is a 
striking description of the wrongs of the 
poor African. Verse 120th, "The load of 
unremitted paiu," is a remarkable, strong 



300 



CORRESPONDENCE OF LURN3. 



expression. The address to the advocates 
for aliolisliing the slave-trade, from verse 
143rd to verse 208th, is animated with the 
true hfe of genius. The picture of oppres- 
sion — 

Wliile she links her impious chain. 
And calculates the price of pain; 
Weighs as^'ony iu sordid scales. 
And marks if death or life prevails— 

is nohly executed. 

^Vhat a tender idea is in verse 180th! 
Indeed, that whole description of home may 
vie with Thomson's description of home, 
somewhere in the heginning of his Autumn. 
I do not rememlier to liave seen a stronger 
expression of misery than is contained in 
these verses :— 

Condemned, severe extreme, to live 
AVhen all is fled that life can give. 

The comparison of our distant joys to distant 
objects is equally original and striking. 

The character and manners of the dealer 
in the infernal traffic is a well done, though 
a horrid picture. I am not sure how far 
introducing the sailor was right ; for though 
the sailor's common characteristic is gene- 
rosity, yet, in this case, he is certaiidy not 
only an unconcerned witness, but, in some 
degree, an efficient agent in the business. 
Verse 224th is nervous and expressive — 
" The heart convulsive anguish breaks." 
The description of the captive wretch when 
he arrives in the West Indies, is carried on 
with equal spirit. The tJiought that the 
oppressor's sorrow, on seeing the slave pine, 
is hke the butcher's regret when his destined 
)amb dies a natural death, is exceedingly 
Ine. 

I am got so much into the cant of criti- 
cism, that I begin to be afraid lest I have 
notiiing except the cant of it ; and instead 
of elucidating my author, am only benighting 
myself For this reason, I will not pretend 
to go through the whole poem. StMue few 
remaining beautiful lines, however, I cannot 
pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest 
description of seltishness I ever saw. The 
comparison in verses 285th and 286 th is 
new and fine ; and the line, " Your arms to 
penury you lend," is excellent. 

In verse ol/th, "like" should certainly be 
" as " or " 80 ; " for instance : — 

His sway the hardened bosom leads 

To cruelty's remorseless deeds : 

As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs 

With fury on its livid wings, 

Darts on the goal with rapid force, 

Nor lieeds that ruia marks its couise. 



If you insert the word "like" where | 
have placed "as," you must alter "darts" 
to " darting," and "heeds" to "heeding," in 
order to make it grammar. A tempest is » 
favourite subject with the poets, but I dc 
not remember any thing, even in Thomson's 
winter, superior to your verses from the 
347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, 
beginning with "Fancy may dress," &c., 
and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my 
opinion, the most beautiful passage in the 
poem ; it would do honour to the greatest 
names that ever grjiced our profession. 

I will not beg y^lir pardon, Madam, for 
these strictures, as my conscience tells me, 
that for once in my life I have acted up to 
the duties of a Christian, iu doing as I would 
be done by. R. li. 



NO. LXXXI. 



TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 

IRVINE. (54) 

Edinbiinjli, Bee. SOth, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — I have met with few 
things in life which have given me more 
pleasure than Fortune's kindness to you 
since those days in which we met in the vale 
of misery; as I can honestly say, that I 
never knew a man who more truly deserved 
it, or to whom my heart more truly wished 
it. I have been much indebted since that 
time to your story and sentiments for 
steeling my mind against evils, of which I 
have had a pretty decent share. My will-o'- 
wisp fate you know : do you recollect a 
Sunday we spent together in Eglinton 
woods ? You told me, on my repeating 
some verses to you, that you wondered I 
could resist the temptation of sending verses 
of such merit to ti magazine. It was from 
this remark I derived that idea of my owa 
pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at 
the character of a poet. I am happy to 
hear that you will be two or tliree niuntha 
»*• home. As soon as a bruised limb will 
permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and 
we shall meet; "and faith, I hope we'll not 
sit dumb, nor yet cast out ! " 

I have much to tell you " of men, their 
manners, and their ways," perhaps a little of 
the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remem. 
bered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, 
my dear friend, but you have found sub- 
stantial happiness. I expect to find yoa 
something of an altered, but not a diiferent 
man; the wild, bold, generous young fellow 
composed into the steady, aii'ectioData 




-^r^i) 



ms> 




niiHiiiniiiiiiiiii;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii[iiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiHiiiiuiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



TO CLARINDA 



301 



husband, and the fond careful parent. For 
QIC, I am just the same will-o'- wisp being I 
used to be. About the first and fourth 
quarters of the moon, I generally set in for 
che trade-wind of wisdom ; but about the 
full and change, I am the luckless victim of 
mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. 
Almighty love still reigns and revels in my 
bosom ; and I am, at this moment, ready to 
liang myself for a young Edinburgh widow 
(55), who has wit and wisdom more murde- 
rously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of 
the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of 
the savage African. My Highland dirk, 
that used to hang besiJe my crutches, I have 
gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, 
the key of which I cannot command in case 
of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess 
of her wit by the fullowing verses, which she 
sent me the other day : — 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain. 

For love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain. 

And plunged me deep in woe ! 

But friendship's pure and lasting jojra. 
My I'.eart was formed to prove — 

There, welcome, win and wear the price, 
But never talk of love ! 

Your friendship much can make me blest — 

Oh, why that bliss destroy ? 
Why urge the odious one request. 

You know I must deny ? 

My best comnhments to our friend Allan. 
Adieu 1 " fi.B. 



HO. LXXXII. 



TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. 

Edinburgh, Dec, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — It is indeed with the 
! ighest pleasure that I congratulate you on 
the return of days of ease and nights of 
pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in 
which I saw you suffering existence when 
last in Ayrshire. I seldom pray for any- 
body — " I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched 
ill o't ; " but most fervently do I beseech 
the Power that directs the world, that you 
may live long and be happy, but live no 
longer than you are happy. It is needless 
for me to advise you to have a reverend care 
of your health. I know you will make it a 
point never at one time to drink more than 
• pint of wine (I mean an English pintj, and 
that you will never be witness to more than 
aae bowl ci Duncb at a time, aud that rold 



drams you will never more taste ; and, above 
all things, I am convinced, that after drinking 
perhaps boiling punch you will never mount 
your horse and gallop home in a chill late 
hour. Above all things, as I understand you 
are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges 
of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest 
with him that he will wrestle in prayer for 
you, that you may see the vanity of vanities 
in trusting to, or even practising, the casual 
moral works of charity, humanity, generosity, 
and forgiveness of things, which you practised 
so flagrantly, that it was evident you de- 
lighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps pro- 
fanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of 
faith without works, the only author of 
salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, 
in my opinion, be highly becoming from you 
at present, and in my zeal for your well- 
being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent 
in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of 
sacred poesy, ily best compliments to Mrs. 
Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours, &c. 
R. B. 



NO. LXXXIll. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Thursday 'Eveninrj. 

Madam, (56) — I bad set no small store 
by my tea-drinking to-night, and have not 
often been so disappointed. Saturday even- 
ing I shall embrace the opportunity with 
the greatest pleasure. I leave this town 
this day sen'niglit, and, probably for a 
couple of twelvemonths; but must ever re- 
gret that I so lately got an acquaintance I 
shall ever highly esteem, and in whose 
welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. 

Our worthy common friend, in her usual 
pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my 
new acquaintance, and in the humour of hei 
ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose 
you, as I think they have a good deal o( 

poetic merit ; and Miss tells me you are 

not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, 
you know, is the native region of poetry 4 
and I hope yoa will pardon my vanity in 
sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable off- 
hand Jeu-d'esprit. I have several poetic 
trifles, which I shall gladly leave with Miss 
, or you, if they were worth house- 
room ; as there are scarcely two people on 
earth by whom it would mortify me more to 
be forgotten, though at the distance of nine- 
score miles. — I am. Madam, with the highest 
respect, your very bumble servant, 

B B 



802 



COltRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



no. Lxxxiv. 

TO THE SAME. (57) 

Saturday Evening 

I CAN say with truth, Madam, that I 
never met with a person in my life whom I 
m;jre anxiously wished to meet again than 
yourself. To-night I was to have had that 
very great pleasure ; I was intoxicated with 
the idea, but an unlucky fall from a coach 
has so bruised one of my knees that I can't 
stir ray leg ; so if I don't see you again, I 
•hall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I 
was vexed to the soul I hai not seen you 
Booner ; I determined to cultivate your 
friendship with the enthusiasm of religion ; 
but thus has Fortune ever served rae. I 
cannot bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh 
without seeing you. I know not how to 
accoinit for it — I am strangely taken with 
Borae people, nor am I often mistaken. You 
are a stranger to me; but I am an odd 
being; some yet unnamed feelings, things, 
not principles, but better than whuns, carry 
me farther than boasted reason ever did a 
philosopher. — Farewell 1 every happines* be 
yours 1 



NO. ULXXT. 

TO THE SAME. 



Friday Evening, Dec. 22nd, 1787. 

I BEG your pardon, ray dear "Clarinda," 
for the fragment scrawl I sent you yester- 
day. (58) 1 really do not know what I 
wrote. A gentleman, for whose charactc", 
abilities, and critical knowledge, 1 have the 
highest veneration, called in just as I had 
begun the second sentence, and I would not 
make the porter wait. I read to my much 
respected friend some of ray own bagatelles, 
end, among otiiers, your lines, which I had 
copied out. He began some criticisms on 
tliem as on the other pieces, when I informed 
liim they were the work of a young lady in 
this town, which, I assure you, made him 
scare. My learned friend seriously pro- 
tested that he did not believe any young 
woman in Edinburgh was capable of suoli 
h es : and if you know anything of Pro- 
fessor Gregory, you will neither, doubt of 
his abilities nor hic- sincerity. 1 do love you, 
if possiljle, still better for having so fine a 
taste and turn for poesy. I have again gone 
5rrong in my usual unguarded way, but you 
may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, 
"' wiY other tame Dutch expression you 



please in its place. 1 believe there is no 
holding converse, nor carrying on corres- 
pondence, with an amiable woman, much 
less a gloriously amiable, fine woman, with- 
out some mixture of that delicious passion, 
whose most devoted slave I have more than 
once had the honour of being. — But why 
be hurt or offended on that account? Can 
no honest man have a prepossession for a 
fine woman, but he must run his head 
against an intrigue? Take a little of the 
tender witchcraft of love, and add it to the 
generous, the honourable sentiments of 
inaidy friendship : and I know but one more 
delightful morsel, which few, few in any 
rank ever taste. Such a composition is like 
adding cream to strawberries; it not only 
gi\es the fruit a more elegant richness, 
but has a peculiar deliciousness of its 
own. 

I enclose you a few lines I composed on 
a late melivncholy occasion. I will not give 
above five or six cojiies of it at all, and I 
would be hurt if any friend should give any 
copies without my consent. 

You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the 
idea of Arcadian names in a commerce of 
this kind;, how much store I have set by the 
hopes of your future friendship. I do not 
know if you have a just idea of my charac- 
ter, but I wish you to see me as I am. I 
am, as most people of my trade are, a strange 
wili-o'-wisp being ; the victim, too fre- 
quently, of much imprudence and many 
follies. My great constituent elements are 
pride and passion. The first I have en- 
deavoured to humanize into integrity and 
honour ; the last makes rae a devotee to the 
warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love 
religion, or friendship — either of them, or 
all together, as I happen to be inspired. 
'Tis true, I never saw you but once ; but 
how much acquaintance did I form with you 
in that once ! Do not think I flatter you, 
or have a design upon you, Clarinda ; I have 
too much pride for the one, and too little 
cold contrivance for the other ; but of all 
God's creatures I ever could approach in the 
beaten way of my acquaintance, you struck 
me with the deepest, the strongest, the 
most permanent impression. I say, the 
most permanent, because I know myscH 
well, and how far I can promise either in 
my prepossessions or powers. Why are 
you unhappy? And why are so many of- 
our fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to 
the same species with you, blest with all 
they can wish ? You have a hand all- 
benevolent to give ; why are you denied 
the pleasure ? You have a heart formed — ^ 







r^ 



^ms^ 




TV CLARIFDA 



303 



plorionsly formed — for all the most refined 
'uxiiries of love — A'\'hy was that heart ever 
WTuiig ? O Clarinda ! shall we not meet 
ill a stale, some yet unknown state of being, 
where the lavish hand of plenty sliall 
minister to the hii;hest wish of benevolence ; 
and wliere the chill north-wind of prudence 
shall never blow over the flowery fields of 
enjoyment ? If we do not, man was made 
in vain ! I deserved most of the unhappy 
hours that have lingered over my head ; 
they were the waires of my labour: but 
what improvoked demon, malignant as hell, 
stole nu the contitlence of unmistrusting 
bus :' ite, and dashed your cup of life with 
uuilcserved sorrow ? 

Let me know how long your stay will be 
out of town ; I shall count the hours till 
you inform me of your return. Cursed 
etiquette forbids your seeing me just now; 
and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edin- 
burgh adieu. Lord, why was I born to see 
misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet 
with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I look 
back with tlie pang of unavailing avarice on 
my loss in not knowing you sooner : all last 
winter, these tliree months past, what luxury 
of intercourse have I not lost ! Perhaps, 
though, 'twas better for my peace. You see 
I am either above, or incapable of, dissimu- 
lation. I believe it is want of that particu- 
lar genius. I despise design, because I want 
either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. 
I am interrupted. — Adieu! my dear Clarinda! 

Syi.TAMD£K. 



NO. LXXXVI. (59) 

TO THE SAME 

You are right, my dear Clarintla ; a 
friendly correspondence goes for nothing, 
except one writes his or her undisguised sen- 
timents. Yours please me for their intrinsic 
aierit, as well as because they are yours, 
which, I assure you, is to me a high recom- 
mendation. Your religious sentiments, 
Jladam, I revere. If you have, on some 
suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle, 
learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly 
unportant a matter as real religion, you have, 
my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend. 
" 1 am not mad, most noble Festus !" Have 
you ever met a perfect character? Do we 
aot sometimes rather exchai.ge faults than 
get rid of them? For instance, I am perhaps 
tired with, and shocked at, a life too mucli 
the prey of jjiddy incfmsistencves and 

27 



thoughtless follies; by degrees I grow scber, 
prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, 
because the most unatfected devotion is not 
at all inconsistent with my first character — • 
I join the world in congratulating myself on 
the happy change. But let me pry more 
narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bot- 
tom, any thing of a secret pride in these 
endowments and emendations? Have I 
nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypo- 
critical severity, when I survey my less 
regular neighbours ? In a word, have I 
missed all those nameless and numberless 
modifications of indistinct selfishness, which 
are so near our ov/n eyes that we can scarcely 
bring thein within the sphere of our vision, 
and which the known spotless cambric of our 
character hides from the ordinary observer ? 

My definition of worth is short; truth and 
humanity respecting our fellow-creatures ; 
reverence and humility in the presence oil 
that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and 
who, I have every reason to believe, will one 
day be my Judge. The first part of my 
definition is the creature of unbiassed in- 
stinct ; the last is the chdd of after reflection. 
Where I found these two essentials, i would 
gently note, and slightly mention, any at- 
tendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the conse- 
quences, of human nature. 

I can easily enter into the sublime 
pleasures that your strong imagination and 
keen sensibility must derive from religion, 
particularly if a little in the shade of mis- 
fortune : but I own I cannot, without a 
marked grudge, see Heavi-n totally engross 
so amiable, so charming, a woman as my 
friend Clarinda; and should be very well 
pleased at a circumUance that would put it 
in the power of somebody (happy somebody!) 
to divide her attention, with all the delicacy 
and tenderness of an earthly attachment. 

You will not easily persuade me that you 
have not a grammatical knowledge of tiie 
English language. So far from being inac- 
curate, you are eloquent beyond any woman 
of my acquaintance, except one, whom I wish 
you knew. 

Your last verses to me have so delighted 
me that I have got an excellent old Scots air 
that suits the measure, and you shall see 
them in print in the Scots Musical Museum, 
a work publishing Ly a friend of mine in this 
town. I want four stanzas ; yr u gave me 
but three, and one of them alluded to an 
expression in my former letter ; so I have 
taken your first two verses, with « 
slight alteration in the second, and have 
added a third ; but you must help me to a 
fourth. Here they »;fe: tiie latter half o/ 



S04 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



the first stanza would have been worthy of 
Sappho ; I am iu raptures with it. 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain. 

For love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain. 

And sunk me deep in woe. 

But Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart was formed to prove ; 

There, welcome, win, and wear tlie prize. 
But never talk of love. 

Your friendship much can make me blest, 
O why that bliss destroy ! 
[only] 
Why urge the odious one request, 
[will] 
You know I must deny. 

The alteration in the second stanza is no 
improvement, but there was a slight inaccu- 
racy in your rhyme. The third I only offer 
to your choice, and have left two words for 
your determination. The air is ' The Banks 
of Spey,' and is paost beautiful. 

To-morrow evening I intend taking a 
chair, and paying a visit at Park Place to a 
much-valued old friend. If I could be sure 
of tindiiig you at home (and I will send rine 
of the chairmen to call), I would spend from 
five to six o'clock with you, as I go past. I 
eannot do more at this time, as I have some- 
thing on my hand that hurries me much. I 
propose giving you the tirst call, my old 

friend the second, and Miss as I 

»eturn home. Do not break any engage- 
ment for me, as I will spend another evening 
with you, at any rate, before I leave town. 

Do not tell me that you are pleased when 
your friends inform you of your faults. I am 
gnorant what they are ; but I am sure they 
must be such evanescent trifles, compared 
with your personal and mental accomplish- 
ments, that I would despise the ungenerous 
narrow soul who would notice any shadow of 
imperfections you may seem to have, any 
other way than in the most delicate, agree- 
able raillery. Coarse minds are not aware 
how much they injure the keenly feeling tie 
of bosom-friendship, when, in their foolish 
officiousness, they mention what nobody 
cares for recollecting. People of nice sensi- 
ability and generous minds have a certain in- 
trinsic dignity that fires at being trifled 
with, or lowered, or even too nearly ap- 
proached. 

You need make no apology for long let- 
ters : I am even with you. Many happy 
new years to you, charming Clarinda ! 1 
tan't dissemble, were it to shun perdition. 
He who sees you as I have done, and doe» 



not love you, deserves to be damu'd for lii« 
stupidity ! He who loves you, and would 
injure you, deserves to be doubly daran'd foi 
hisvilhany! Adieu. Sylvander. 

P. S. What would you think of this for a 
fourth stanza ? 

Your thought, if love must harbour there, 

Conceal it in that thought. 
Nor cause me from my bosom teal 

The Tery friend I sought. 



NO. LXXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Monday Evening, 11 o'clockf 
January 2\st, 1788. 

Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda ? 
To-day I expected it ; and before supper, 
when a letter to me was announced, my 
heart danced with rapture; but behold, 'twas 
some fool who had taken it in his head to 
turn poet, and made me an offering of the 
first-fruits of his nonsense. " It is not 
poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever 
reiieat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. 
Elphinstone, who has given a translation of 
Martial, a famous Latin poet ? — The poetry 
of Elphinstone can only equal his prose 
notes. I was sitting in the shop of a mer- 
chant of my acquaintance, waiting some- 
body; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and 
asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to 
write it on a blank leaf, which I did. 

TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, &c. 
O thou, whom poesy abhors ! 
Whom prose has turned out of doors ! 
Heard'st thou thatgroan? proceed no further; 
'Twas laurel'd Martial roaring Murther. 

I am determined to see you, if at all po-j- 
sible, on Saturday evening. Ne.\Lt week I 
must sing — 

The night is my departing night. 

The morn's the day I maun awa ; 
There's neither friend nor foe o' mme. 

But wishes that I were awa ! 
What I hae done, for lack o' wit, 

I never, never, can reca' ; 
1 hope ye're a' my friends as yet, 

Guid night, and joy be wi' you a' ! 

If I could see you sooner, I would be so 
much the happier; but I would not purchase 
the dearest gratification on earth, if it must 
be at your expense in worldly censure, far 
less inward peace ! 

I shall certainly be ashamed of thui 



TO CLARINDA. 



305 



scrawlins^ whole sheets of incoherence. The 
only unltij (a sad word with pacts and critics !) 
in my ideas is Clarinda. Tliere my heart 
* reii;us and revels." 

"Wliat art thou, Love? whence are those 
charms, 

That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? 
For thee the soldier quits his arms, 
- The kin? turns slave, the wise man fool. 
In vain we chase thee from the field, 

And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke; 
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield ; 

And all those high resolves are broke!" 

I like to have quotations for every occasion. 
They give one's ideas so pat, and save one 
the trouble of finding expression adequate 
to one's feelings. I think it is one of the 
greatest pleasures, attending a poetic genius, 
that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, 
&c., an embodied form in verse, which to me 
is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says 
finely of his Muse : — 

" Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe. 
Thou found'st me poor at fijst, and keep'st 
me so." 

My limb has been so well to-day, that I 
aave gone up and down stairs often ■n'ithout 
my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once 
again on my own legs to dinner. It is only 
next street — Adieu. 

Sylvander. 



NO. LXXXTIII. 

TO THE SAME. 



Saturday Noon, January 26th, 17S8. 

Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, 
like the " ten righteous persons in Sodom," 
save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miser- 
able months and years of life. One of these 
hours, my dear Clarinda blessed me with 
yesternight. 



' One well spent hour. 



In such a tender circumstance for friends. 
Is better than an age of common time ! " 
Thomsox. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan ia 
his manly fortitude in supporting what can- 
not be remedied — in short, the wild broken 
fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. 
I meant no more by saying he was a favourite 
hero of mine. 

I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. 
Moore, gi^ug an account of my life : it is 



trutn, every word of it ; and will give you 
the just idea of a man whom you have iion- 
oured with your friendship. I am afraid you 
will liardly be able to make sense of so torn 
a piece. — Y(jur verses I shall muse on deli- 
ciously, as I gaze on your image in my 
mind's eye, in my heart's core ; they will be 
in time enough for a week to come. I am 
truly happy your head-ache is better. — O, 
how can pain or evil be so daringly, unfeel- 
ingly, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a 
mind, so lovely a form ! 

My little fellow is all my name-sake. — ■ 
AVrite me soon. My every, strongest good 
wishes attend you, Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 

I know not what I have written — I am 
pestered with people around me. 



NO. LXXXIX. 

TO THE SAME. 



Sunday N'kjM, January 21th, 1788. 

The impertinence of fools has joined with 
a return of an old indisposition, to make me 
good for nothing to-day. The paper has 
lain before me all this evening, to write to 
my dear Clarinda, but — 

" Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to 
waves." 

I cursed them in my soid ; they sacrilegi- 
ously disturbed my meditations on her who 
holds mjf heart. What a creature is man ! 
A little alarm last night and to-day, that I 
am mortal, has made such a revolution on 
my spirits! There is no philosophy, no 
divinity, comes half so home to the iniud. 
I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. 
'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero 
in bedlam. 

I can no more, Clarinda ; I can scarcely 
hold up my head ; but I am happy you do 
not know it, you would be so uneasy. 

Sylvander. 



Mondmy Morning, Januaiy 2Sth, 1788. 

I AM, my lovely friend, much better this 
morning on the whole ; but I have a horrid 
langour on my spirits. 

" Sick of the world, and all its joys. 
My soul in pining sadness mourns : 

Dark scenes of woe my mind employs, 
The past and present in their turns." 



COREESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Hare yo! ever r.iet with a saying of the 
great, and hkewise good Mr. Locke, author 
ot' the famous Essay on the Human Under- 
standing ? He wrote a letter to a friend, 
directing it " not to be delivered till after 
my decease : " it ended thus — " I know you 
loved me when living, and will preserve my 
memory now I am dead. All the use to be 
made of it is, that this life affords no solid 
satisfaction, but in the consciousness of 
having done well, and the hopes of another 
life. Adieu! I leave my best wishes with 
you. — J. Locke." 

Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship 
for life? I think I may. Thou Almighty 
Preserver of men I thy friendship, which 
hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure 
it, shall all the future days and nights of my 
hie, be my steady care ! The idea of my 
Clarinda follows — 

"Hide it my heart, within that close disguise. 
Where mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies." 

But I fear that inconstancy, the conse- 
quent imperfection of human weakness. 
Shall I meet with a friendship that defies 
years of absence, and the chances and changes 
of fortune? Perhaps "such things are;" 
one honest man I have great hopes from that 
way : but who, except a romance writer, 
would think on a love that could promise 
for life, in spite of distance, absence, chance, 
and change ; and that, too, with slender 
hopes of fruition ? For my own part, I can 
say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou 
art the man !" I dare, in cool resolve I dare, 
declare myself that friend, and that lover. 
If womankind is capable of such things, 
Clarinda is. I trust that she is; and feel I 
ihall be miserable if she be not. There is 
flot one virtue which gives worth, nor one 
sentiment which does honour to the sex, that 
she does not possess, superiorly to any woman 
I ever saw : her exalted mind, aided ft little, 
perhap.i, by her situation, is, 1 think, capable 
of that nobly-romantic love-enthusiasm. 

Alay I see you on Wednesday evening, my 
dear angel? The next Wednesday again 
will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. 
I tremble for censorious remark, for your 
Bake ; but in extraordinary cases, may not 
usual and useful precaution be a little dis- 
pel sed with ? Three evenings, three swift- 
wmged evenings, with pinions of down, are 
bU the past ; I dare not calculate the future. 

1 Bhall call at Jliss 's to morrow e\>^uing: 

twill be a farewell call. 

1 have written out my last sheet of papcT, 
•o I am reduced to my last haL<-sheft. 



A^Tiat » strange mysterious faculty is that 
thing called imagination ! We have no 
ideas almost at all of another world ; but I 
have often amused myself with visionary 
schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed 
by small alterations — alterations that we 
can fidly enter into, in this present state o< 
existence. For instance, suppose you and I, 
just as we are at present ; the same reason- 
ing powers, sentiments, and even desires ; 
the same fond curiosity for knowledge and 
remarking observation in our minds ; and 
imagine our bodies free from pain and the 
necessary supplies for the wants of nature 
at all times, and easily witliin our reach : 
imagine further^ that we were set free from 
the laws of gravitation, which bind us to 
this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without 
inconvenience, through all the yet uncon- 
jcctured bounds of creation, what a life of 
bhss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit 
of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual 
enjoyment of friendship and love ! 

1 see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and 
calling me a voluptuous Mahometan ; but 1 
am certain I would be a happy creature, 
beyond any thing we call bliss here below ; 
nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you 
too. Don't you see us, hand in hand, or 
rather, my arm about your lovely waist, 
making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest 
of the fixed stars ; or surveying a comet, 
flaming innoxious by us, as we just now 
would mark the passing pomp of a tra- 
velling monarch ; or in the shady bower of 
Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to 
love, in mutual converse, relying honour, and 
revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted 
strains of poesy and harmony would be the 
ready, spontaneous language of our souls ! 
Devotion is the favourite employment of 
your heart; so it is of mine: what incentives 
then to, and powers for, reverence, gratitude, 
faith, and hope, in all the fervours of adora- 
tion and praise to that Being, whose un- 
searchable wisdom, power and goodness, so 
pervaded, so inspired, every sense and 
feeling !— By this time, I dare say, you will 
be blessing the neglect of the maid that 
leaves me destitute of paper ! 

Sylvandeb 



WO. xc. (CO) 
TO THE SAME. 

Tuesdmj Night, 1788. 
I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, x^ith 
your honest enthusiasm for religion. Thoue 



TO CLARINDA. 



303 



ef either ses, but particularly the female, 
v/hci are lukewarm in that most important of 
all things, " O my soul, come not thou into 
their secrets ! " — I feel myself deeply inter- 
ested in your good opinion, and will lay 
^'efore you the outlines of my belief. He 
who is our Author and Preserver, and will 
one day be our Judge, must be (not for his 
sake m the way of duty, but from the native 
impulse of our heartsj the object of our 
reverential a^ve and grateful adoration : He 
is Almighty and all-bounteous, we are weak 
and dependent ; hence prayer aud every 

otl>er sort of devotion. " He is not willing 

that any should perish, but that all should 
come to everlasting life ; " consequently, it 
must be in every one's power to embrace his 
offer of "everlasting life;" otherwise he 
could not, in justice, condemn those who 
did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and 
governed by purity, truth and charity, 
though it does not merit heaven, y^t is an 
absolutely necessary pre-requisite, without 
which heaven can neither be obtained nor 
enjoyed ; and, by divine promise, such a 
mind shall never fail of attaining "ever- 
lasting life ; " hence the impure, the deceiv- 
ing, and the uncharitable exclude themselves 
from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for 
enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put 
the immediate administration of all this, for 
wise and good ends known to himself, into 
the hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, 
whose relation to him we cannot compre- 
hend, but whose relation to us is a Juide 
and Saviour ; and who, except for our own 
obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, 
through various ways, and by various means, 
to bliss at last. 

These are my tenets, my lovely friend; 
and which, I think, cannot be well disputed. 
]\ly creed is pretty nearly expressed in the 
last clause of Jamie Dean's grace, an honest 
weaver in Ayrshire: "Lord, grau/t that we 
may lead a guid life ! for a guid life maks a 
guid end, at least it helps weel ! " 

I am flattered by the entertamment you 
tell me you have found in my packet. You 
see me as I have been, you know me as I am, 
and may guess at what I am likely to be. I 
too may say, " Talk not of love," &c., for 
indeed he has " plunged me deep in woe ! " 
Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased 
unexceDtionably, as my Clarinda elegantly 
says, "m the companion, the friend, and the 
distress." One indeed I could except — One, 
before passion threw its mists over my 
discernment, I knew the first of women ! 
Her name is indelibly written in my heart's 
eoire — but I dare Mot look in on it — a degree 



of agon/ wovdd be the consequence. Oh ! 
tho.i perfidous, critel, mischief-making demoa 
who presidest over that frantic passion— 
thou mayest, thou dost poison my peace^ 
but thou shalt not taint my honour — 1 
would not, for a single moment, give an 
asylum to the most distant imagination that 
would shadow the faintest outhne of a 
selfish gratification, at the expense of her 
whose happiness is twisted with the threads 

of my existence. May she be as happy 

as she deserves ! And if my tenderest, 
faithfnlest friendship can add to her bliss, I 
shall, at least, have one solid mine of enjoy- 
ment in my bosom! Don't guess at these 
ravinrjs ! 

I watched at our front window to-day, 
but was disappointed. It has been a day of 
disappointments. I am just risen from a 
two hours' bout after supper, with silly or 
sordid souls, who could relish nothing in 

common with me but the port. One 

'Tis now "witching time of night;" and 
whatever is out of joint in the foregoing 
scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spelis ; 
for I can't look over it, but will seal it up 
directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's 
criticisms on it. 

You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda ; 
may good angels attend and guard you 
as constantly and faithfully as my good 
wishes do ! 

" Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep. 
Shot forth peculiar graces." 

John j\Iilton, I wish thy soul better rest 
than I expect on my pillow to-night ! O for 
a little of the cart-horse part of human 
nature ! Good night, my dearest Clarinda ! 

SYLVANDlia. 



TO THE SAME. 

Tuesday Noon, January llth, 1783. 

I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda ; but you 
don't look to the proper etory for a poet's 
lodging— 

" Where speculation's roosted near the sky." 

I could almost have thrown myself over 
for very vexation. Why did'ut you look 
higher? It has spoiled my peace for this 
day. To be so near my charming Clarinda ; 
to miss her look when it was searching for 
me— I am sure the soul is capable of disease, 
for mine has convulsed itself into an iuflma- 
matoiy fever. 




'^""uiiii;iiiiiiJi:!i:iiii'ini!::!!;'!i')i!ii'iii!'[ii: 




iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinniiii;iiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiii 




SOS 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Yoii liave convert fid rae, Clarinda. I 
shall love that name w'.iile I live : there is 
heavenly music in it. Booth and Amelia I 
know well. (Gl) Your sentiments on that 
subject, as they are on every subject, are 
just and noble. " To be feelingly alive to 
kindness and to unkmdness," is a charming 
female character. 

What I said in my last letter, the powers 
of fuddling sociality only know for me. By 
yours, I understand my good star has been 
partly in my horizon, when I got wild in my 
reveries. Had that evil planet, which has 
almost all my life shed its baneful rays on 
my devoted head, been, as usual, in my 
zenith, I had certainly blabbed something 
that would have pointed out to you the dear 
object of my tenderest friendship, and, in 
epite of me, something more. Had that 
fatal information escaped me, and it was 
merely chance, or kind stars, that it did not, 
I had been undone ! You would never have 
written me, except perhaps once more ! O, 
I could curse circumstances, and the coarse 
tie of human laws, which keep fast what 
common sense would loose, and which bars 
that happiness itself cannot give — happiness 
which otherwise Love and Honour would 
warrant ! But hold — I shall make no more 
" hair breadth 'scapes." 

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent 
business. My likhigs are both strong and 
eternal. I told you I had but one male 
friend : I have but two female. I should 
have a third, but she is surrounded by the 
blandishments of flattery and courtship. 
* * * I register in my heart's core — * * * *. 

Miss N can tell how divine she is. She 

is worthy of a place in the same bosom with 
my Clarinda. That is the highest compli- 
ment I can pay her. 

Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember 

Sylvamogk 



KO. XCII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Saturday Morning, January 19th, 1788. 

Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, 
shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust 
me, wlien I say 'tis also my favourite topic ; 
but mine is the religion of the bosom. I 
hate the very idea of a controversial divinity ; 
fts I firmly believe that every honest upright 
man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of 
the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to 
hint, contain ceusuie, except you want au 



occasion to break with me, don't send tlictn, 
I have a little inlirmity in my disposition, 
that where I ftjndly love, or highly esteem, 
1 cannot bear reproach. 

"Reverence thyself " is a sacre^f maxim, 
and 1 wish to cherish it. I think I .old you 
Lord Boliugbroke's saying to Swift : — 
" Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faultr I love 
thee entirely ; make an effort to love me 
with all mine." A glorious sentiment, and 
without which there can be no friendship ! 
I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, 
Clarinda — you merit it all 1 Perhaps, too — 
I scorn dissimulation! — I could fond^y love 
you: judge then, what a maddening sting 
your reproach would be. " O ! I have sins 
to Heaven, but none to you '" — With wliat 
pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I 
cannot walk to meet the fly. I hope to be 
able to see you on foot about the middle of 
next week. 

I am interrupted — perhaps you are not 
sorry for it, you will tell me — but 1 won't 
anticipate blame. O, Clarinda! did you 
know how dear to me is your look of kind- 
ness, your smile of approbation ! you would 
not, either in prose or verse, risk a censo- 
rious remark. 

" Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow. 
That tends to make one worthy man my 
foel" 

Sylvan DER. 



wo. XCIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Edinburgh, January 2lst, 1738. 

After six weeks' confinement I am be- 
ginning to walk across the room. They 
have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and 
low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or 
think. 

1 have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a com- 
mission : for I would not take in any poor, 
ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I 
was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a 
miserable soldier enough ; now I march to 
the camiiaign, a starving cadet — a little more 
conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of hfe, i could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to buve a? 
much fortitude or cunning as to disscml)le or 
t^nceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journ«y, whicb 




iiiiiiiHiiiiaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiH;]! 



TO CLARINDA 



will be, r suppose, about the middle of next 
neek, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I 
unaU pay my grateful duty at Duidop-llouse. 
R. B. 



NO. XCIT. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Morning, January 29th, 1788. 

I CANNOT s'o out to-day, my dearest C'la- 
rhida, without sending you half a line, by 
way of a sui-oiYering ; but, believe me, 'twas 
the siu of isrnorance. Could you think that 
I intended to hurt you by any tli,'iii;- I said 
yesternight ? Nature has been too kind to 
you for your happiness, your delicacy, your 
sensibility. — O wiiy should such glorious 
qualifications be the fruitful source of woe ! 
You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. 
I went to bed, impressed with an idea that 
you were tinhappy: and every time I closed 
my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such 
scenes of romantic misery that I would 
almost be persuaded you were not well this 
morning^. 

' If I unwittingly have offended. 



Impute it not." 

"But while we live, 

But one short hour, perhaps, between u§ two 
Let there be peace." 

If Mary is not gone by the time this 
reaches you, give her my best compliiucnts. 
She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of 
the noblest love. 

1 send you a poem to read, till I call on 
you this night, which will be about nine. I 
wish I could procure some potent spell, some 
fairy charm that would protect injury, or 
restore to rest that bosom-chord, "trem- 
blingly ali*e all o'er," on which hangs your 
peace of niind. I thought, vainly, I fear, 
thought that the devotion of love — love 
strong as even you can feel — love guarded, 
hivuhierably guarded, by all the purity of 
virtue, and all the pride of honour; 1 thought 
such a love would make you happy — will I 
be uiistakeii? I can no more for liurfy * 



WO. XCT. 

TO THE SAME. 

Sunday Mwniny, February 3rd, 1788. 
I HAVE just been before the throne of my 
Gal, Clarinda ; according to my association 




of ideas, my sentiments of love and friend, 
ship, I next devote myself to you. Yesterday 
night I was happy — hajipiness "that the 
world cannot give." — t kindle at the recol- 
lection ; but it is a flame where innocence 
looks smihng on, and honour stands by a 
sacred guard. — Your heart, your fondest 
wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are 
yours to bestow : your person is unapproach- 
able by the laws of your country ; and he 
loves not as I do who would make you mise- 
rable. 

You are an angel, Clarinda ; you are 
surely no mortal that " the earth owns."— 
To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is 
to me far more exquisite bliss that the dear- 
est favours that the fairest of the sex, your* 
self excepted, can bestow. 

Sunday Evening, 

Yon are the constant companion of my 
thoughts. How wretched is the couditioa 
of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, 
and trembling under the idea of dreaded 
vengeance ! and what a placid calm, what a 
clurming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom 
tiie kind feelings of friendship, and the fond 
throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of 
anger, the acrimonious gall of fretiul impa- 
tience, the sullen frost of louring resentment, 
or the corroding poison of withered en\'y ! 
They eat up the immortal part of man ! If 
they spent their fury only on the unfortunate 
objects of them, it would be something in their 
favour : but these miserable passions, like 
traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. 

Thou Almighty Author of peace, and 
goodness, and love 1 do tb^i give me the 
social heart that kindly tastes of every man's 
cup ! — Is it a draught of joy ? — warm and 
0[)en my heart to share it with cordial, unen- 
vyhig rejoicing ! Is it the bitter potion oi 
sorrow ? — melt my heart with sincerely sym- 
pathetic woe ! Above all, do thou i;ive me 
the manly mind that resolutely exeraplities, 
in life and manners, those sentiments which 
I would wish to be thought to possess ! 
The friend of my soul — there, may I never 
deviate from the firmest fidelity and must 
active kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object 
of my fondest love; there may the most 
sacred, inviolate honour, the most faithfu 
kindling constancy, ever watch and auimate 
my every thought and imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the following 
lines spoken of Religion, your darling topic? 

" 'Tis this, my frieud, that streaks our mora 

ing bright ! 
"Tis this that gUds the horrors of our night ; 



sm 



COR'RERT'OND-RIsrCE OF BURX8. 



When wealth foK«kes us, aud when friends 
are few, [pursue ; 

When friends are faithless, or wlien foes 
Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the ] 

smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : 
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, 
Dids smiling Couscience spread her cloud- 
less skies." 

1 met with these verses very early in life, 
aud was so delighted witii them that I have 
tlieni by me, copied at school. 

Good night aud sound rest, my dearest 
Clariiida 1 SvLVANDiax. 



NO. XCVI. 

TO THE SAME. 



I WAS on the way, my Love, to meet you, 
(I never do things by halves) when I got 
your card. M goes out of town to- 
morrow morning to see a brother of his who 
is newly arrived from . I am deter- 
mined that he and I shall call on you to- 
gether ; so, look you, lest I should never see 
to-morrow, we will call on you to-night ! 

• and you may put off tea till about 

■even ; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, 
' an the beast be to the fore, an the branks 
bide hale,' expect the humblest of your humble 
servants, and his dearest friend. We propose 
staying only half an hour, 'for ought we ken.' 
I could suffer the lash of misery eleven 
months in the year, were the twelfth to be 
composed of hours like yesternight. You 
are the soul of my enjoyment : all else is of 
the stuff aud stocks of stones. 

Syi>vani>£R. 



HO. XCVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Thursday Morning, February Tth 1783. 
" Unlavisli Wisdom never worki m vain." 

I HAVE been tasking my reason, Cluriuda, 
why a woisan who for native genius, poig- 
nant wit, strength of mind, generous sin- 
cerity ot soul, and the sweetest female 
tenderness, is without a peer, and whose 
personal ciiarras have few, very, very few 
parallels among her sex ; why, or how she 
thould fall to the blessed lot of a poor 
harum fcC£?uir poet, whom Fortune had 
kept for hei ;jarticular use, to wreak her 



temper on whenever sLe was in ill-humour. 
One time I conjectured that, as Fortune 33 
the most capricious jade ever known, slu 
may have taken, not a lit of remorse, but a 
paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor de\ il 
out of the mire, where he had so often and 
so conveniently served her as a stepping 
stone, and given him the most glorious 
boon she ever had in her gift merely 
for the maggot's sake, to see how 
this fool head and his fool heart will 
bear it. At other times I was vain enough 
to think that Nature, who has a great deal 
to say with Fortune, had given the coquet- 
tish goddess some such hint as, " Here is a 
paragon of female excellence, whose equal, 
in all my former compositions, I never was 
lucky enough to hit on, aud despair of ever 
doing so again ; you have cast her rather in 
the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of 
my making ; among your frolics it would 
not be amiss to attach him to this master- 
piece of my hand, to give her that immortality 
among mankind wliicli no woman of any 
age ever more deserved, and which few 
rhymsters of this age arc better able to 
coufcr." 

Eveninrj, 9 o'clock. 
I AM here, absolutely unfit to finish my 
letter — pretty hearty alter a bowl, which has 
been constantly plied since dinner till this 
moment. I have been with Mr. Schetki, 
the musician, and he has set it (62) finely. 

1 have no distinct ideas of anythin;j, 

but that I have drunk your healfh twice 
to-night, aud that you are all my sotd 
holds dear in this world. 

Svi.VANDER, 



NO. XCVIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Saturday Morning, February 9f7t, 1788. 

There is no time, my Clarinda, wliPn 
the conscious thrilling chords of Love and 
Friendship give such delinht as in the pen- 
sive hours of what our favourite, Thomson, 
calls "Phdosophic Melancholy." The sportive 
insects who bask in the sunshine of prospe- 
rity ; or the worms that luxuriant crawl 
aiuid their ample wealth of earth — they need 
no Clarinda : they would despise Sylvandcr 
— if they durst. The family of Misfortune, 
a numerous group of brothers and sisters 1 
they need a resting-place to their souis; 
uuuoticed, often coudemued by the world; 



TO CLAETNDA. 



811 



in Bonie degree, perTiaps, condemned by 
themselves, they feel tlie full enjoyment of 
ardent love, delicate tender endearments, 
mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. 

In this light I have often admired religion. 
In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or 
distracted with anxiety, tlie ideas of a com- 
j assionate Ueity, an Almighty Protector, are 
uoubly dear. 

" 'Tis this, my Friend, that streaks our 
morning bright ; 
'Tis tJiis that gilds the horron. of our 
night." 

I have been this morning taking a peep 
through, as Young finely says, " the dark 
postern of time long elaps'd ; " and, you 
will easily guess, 'twas a rueful prospect. 
What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, 
and folly ! My life reminded me of a 
ruined temple ; what strength, what pro- 
portion in some parts ! what unsightly gaps, 
what prostrate ruins in others ! I kneeled 
down before the Father of mercies, and said, 
" Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and 
in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be 

called thy son ! " I rose, eased and 

strengthened. I despise the superstition 
of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a 
man. " The future," said I to myself, " is 
still before me ; " there let me 

-" On reason build resolve. 



That columu of true majesty in man ! " 

" I have difficulties many to encounter," 
said I ; " but they are not absolutely in- 
superable : and where is firmness of mind 
shewn but in exertion ? mere declamation is 
bombastic rant." Besides, wherever I am, 
or in whatever situation I may be — 

' 'Tis nought to me : 

Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 
And where He vital breathes, there must be 
joy 1 " 

Saturday Nir/ht — half-nfter T^... 

What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this 
time yester-night ! My ever-dearest Cla- 
rinda, you have stolen away my soul : but 
you have refined, you have exalted it : you 
have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and 
a stronger relish for piety. — Clarinda, first 
cf your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch 
on earth to forget you ; if ever your lo\ ely 
image is effaced from my soul, 

" May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; 
And find no earth that's base enough to 
bury me I " 



What trifling silliness is the childish fond- 
ness of the every-day children of the world • 
'tis the unmeaning toying of the youngling.^ 
of the fields and forests : but where Senti- 
ment and Fancy unite their sweets , where 
Tastr and Delicacy refine; where Wit adds 
the flavour, and Goodness gives strength 
and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is 
the hour of tender endearment ! — Beauty 
and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, 
in all the luxury of mutual love. 

Claiinda, have you ever seen the picture 
realized ? Not in all its very richest colour- 
ing. 

Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight 
shade, was the glorious picture. 

Innocence 



Look'd gaily smiling on ; while rosy Pleasure 
Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath. 
And pour'd her cup luxuriant; mantling 

high. 
The sparkling heavenly vintage. Love and 

BHss ! 

Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of 
Nature's making — two of Nature's noblest 
productions 1 — when they drink together of 
the same cup of Love and Bliss, attempt 
not, ye coarser stuffs of human nature, 
profanely to measure enjoyment ye never 
can know! — Good night, my dear Clarinda! 

SXLVANDEK. 



»o. XCIX. 



28 



TO THE SAME. 

Fehruary, 1788. 

My ever De.\rest Clarinda. — I 
make a numerous dinner party wait me 
wb.le I read yours, and write this. Do not 
r.qune tliat I should cease to love you, to 
adore you in my soul — 'tis to me imj)ossible ; 
— your peace and hap|iinessare to me dearer 
than my soul ; name the terms on which 
you wish to see me, to correspond with 
me, and you have them ; I must love, 
pine, mourn, and adore in secret — tliis 
you must not deny me ; you will ever be 
to me — 

" Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my 
heart !" 

I have not patience to read the puritanic 
scrawl. — Vile sophistry ! — Ye heavens ! thou 
God of nature ! thou Redeemer of mankind! 
ye look down with approving eyes *m t 




|^W> 




Sl-i 



CORRESPONDEiSrCE OF BURNS. 



passion inspired by the purest flame, and 
guiiriled by trut'i, delicacy, and lionour; but 
tlie Imlf-inchsoul of au unfeeling, cold-blooded 
pitiful, presbyterian bigot cainiot forgive any 
thing above his dungeou bosom and foggy 
head. 

Farewell ; I'll be with you to-morrow 
evening; and be at rest in your mind ; — I 
will be yours in the way you think most to 
your happiness ! I dare !iot proceed — I 
love, and v/ill love you, and will with joyous 
conlidence approach the throne of the Al- 
mighty Judge of men, with your dear idea, 
and will des|)ise the scum of sentiment, and 
the mist of sophistry. 

Sylvandek. 



NO. O. 



TO THE SAME. 

Tuesday Evening, Feb. I2th, 1783. 

Ttiat you have faults, my Clariiida, I 
never doubted ; but I knew not where they 
existed, and Saturday night made me more 
in the dark tlia'i ever. O Clarinda, why will 
you wound my soid, by hinting that last 
night must have lessened my opinion of 
you ? True, 1 was " behind the scenes with 
you ;" but what did I see? A bosom glow- 
ing with honour and benevolence : a mind 
ennobled by genius, informed audrelined by 
education and reflection, and exalted by na- 
tive religion, genuine as in the climes of 
heaven ; a heart formed for all the glm-ious 
meltings of friendship, love and pity. These 
I saw. — I saw the noblest immortal soul 
creation ever showed me. 

I looked long, mj' dear Clarinda, for your 
letter ; and am vexed that you are complain- 
ing. I have not caught you so far wrong as 
in your idea, that the commerce you have 
with one friend hurts >ou, if you cainiot tell 
every tittle of it to another. Why have you 
So injurious a siispieion of a good God, 
Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and 
Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of 
Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be any 
thing else than au object of His divhie 
ap])robation ? 

I have mentioned, in some of my former 
scrawls, Saturday evening next. IJo allow 
me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my 
angel I how soon must we part ! and whea 
ean we meet again I I looked forward on the 
horrid interval with tearful eyes ! What 
have I lost by not knowing you sooner I I 
fear, I fear my acquaintance with you is too 



short to make that InMing impression (hi 
your heart i could wish. 

SVLVANDEK. 



KO. CI. 

TO TPE SAJIE. 

"I AM distressed for thee, my brother 
Jonathan!" I have suftered, Clarinda, from 
your letter. My soul was in arms at the 
sad perusal ; I dreaded that 1 had acted 
wrong. If I have robbed yon of a friend, 
God forj'ive me! But, Clarinda, be com- 
forted : let us raise the tone of our feelings 
a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature 
who leaves us, who spurns us without just 
cause, though once our bosom friend — up 
with a little honest pride— let hiir go! How 
shall I comfort you, who ain the cause of the 
injury? Can I wish that 1 had never seen 
you? that we had never met ? No! I iicvM 
will. But have I thrown you friendless?— 
there is almost distraction in that thought. 

Father of mercies! against Thee ot'ien 
have 1 sinned ; through Thy grace I will en- 
deavour to do so no more ! She who. Thou 
knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour 
Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, 
and hedge her about with '.riiy peculiar care, 
all her future days and nights! Strengthen 
her tcnilcr noble mind, lirinly to sutler, and 
magnanimously to bear ! jNlake me worthy 
of that friendship she honours me witlu 
May my attacluneut to her be pure as devw 
tion, and lasting as immortal life ! O 
Almighty Goodness, hear me! Be to her at 
all times, particularly in the hour of distress 
or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide 
and Guard. 

" How are Thy servants blest, Lord, 
How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is tlieir guide. 
Their help. Omnipotence 1" 

Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I havo 
done you! To-night I shall be with yim; 
as indeed I shall be ill at case till 1 see you. 
SvLVAMUita. 



MO. CII. 

TO THE QAME. 

Two o'clock. 

I JUST now received your first letter of 
yesterday, by the careless negligence of tha 
penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grc-wi' 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



313 



very sClMOUS \rith us ; then seriously hear 
me, and hear me, Heaven : — I met you, my 
dear * * * *, by far the first of woman- 
kind, at least to me ; I esteemed, I loved 
you at first sight, the longer I am acquainted 
'.vitli you, the more innate amiableness and 
worth I discover in you. — You have suffered 
a loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the 
firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship, — if 
every endeavour to oe worthy of your friend- 
ship, —if a love, strong as the ties of nature, 
and holy as the duties of religion — if all 
the>e can make anything like a compensation 
for tlie evil I have occasioned you, if they 
be worth your acceptance, or can in the least 
add to your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, 
ye Powers above, in his hour of need, as he 
freely gives these all to Clarinda ! 

I esteem you, I love you as a friend ; I 
admire you, I love you as a woman, beyond 
any one in all the circle of creation ; I know 
I shall continue to esteem you, to love you, 
to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for 
your sake. 

Expect nie at eight. — And believe me to 
be ever, my dearest Madam, yours most 
eutiiely, Sxlvander. 



NO. cm. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinhur(jh, February \2tli, 1783. 

Some things in your late letters hurt me : 
not that you say them, but that you mistake 
ue. Religion, ray honoured jNladara, has 
not only been all my life my chief dependence, 
but my dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed, 
been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; 
but, alas ! I have ever been "more fool than 
knave." A mathematician without religion 
is a probable character; an irreligious poet 
it a monster. R. B. 



TO CLARINDA, 

February l^tTt, 1783. 

When matters, my love, are desperate, 
we must put on a desperate face : — 

" On reason build resolve. 

That column of true majesty in man." 



I Or, as the same author finely says iu 
another place — 

" Let thy soul spring up. 

And lay strong hold for help on him that 
made thee." 

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be 
discouraged at all this. Look forward ; in a 
few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out 
of the possibility of seeing you : till then, I 
shall write you often, but visit you seldom. 
Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are 
dearer to me than any gratification whatever. 
Be comforted, my love ! the present moment 
is the worst : the lenient hand of Time is 
daily and hourly either lightening the burden, 
or making is uisensible to "the weight. 

None of these friends, I mean Mr. 

and the other gentleman, can hurt your 
worldly support, and for their friendship, in 
a little time you will learn to be easy, and 
by and bye, to be happy without it. A 
decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and 
one firm, trusty friend — can anybody that 
has these be said to be unhappy ? Thesa 
are yours. 

To-morrow evening I shall be with you 
about eight ; probably for the last time till I 
return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, 
should any of these two unlucky frieiidj 
question you respecting me, whether I am 
the man, I do not think they are entitled to 
any information. As to their jealousy and 
spying, I despise them. — Adieu, my dearest 
Madam 1 SxtVANDEa. 



NO. CT. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa 

OF FINTRY. 

February, 1783. 
Sir. — ^When I had the honour of being 
introduced to you at Athole House, I did not 
think so soon of asking a favour of you. 
When Lear, in Shakespeare, asked ohl Kent 
why he wished to be in his service, he 
answers : — " Because you have that iu yoiur 
face which I would fain call master." For 
some such reason. Sir, do I now sohcit your 
patronage. You know, I dare say, of an 
application I lately made to your Board ta 
be admitted an officer of Excise. I havei 
according to form, been examined by a super 




"^i^x 




314 



CORRESPONDElSrCE OF BURNS. 



visor, and to-^ay I gave in his certificate, with 
a request for an order for instructions. In 
tliis affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall 
but too much need a patronising friend, 
Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 
and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; 
but with any thing like business, except 
manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 

1 had intended to have closed my late ap- 
jjcarance on the stage of life in the character 
of a country farmer ; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable 
manner, which I have lived to see throw a 
venerable parent into the jaws of a jail, — 
whence death, the poor man's last and often 
best friend, rescued him. 

1 know. Sir, that to need your goodness, 
is to have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, 
beg your patronage to forward me in this 
affair, till I be appointed to a division — 
where, by the help of rigid economy, I will 
try to support that independence so dear to 
my soul, but which has been too often so 
distant from my situation. R. B. 



TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. (63) 
Edinhunjh, February, 14<A, 1788. 

Reverend and Dear Sir — I have 
been a cripple now near three months, though 
I am getting vastly better, and have been 
very much hurried be sides, or else I would 
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your 
pardon for the epistle you sent me appearing 
in the Magazine. I had given a copy or two 
10 some of my intimate friends, but did not 
know of the printing of it till the publication 
of the Magazine. However, as it does great 
honour to us both, you will forgive it. 

The second volume of the Songs I men- 
tioned to you in my last is published to-day. 
I send you a copy, which I beg you will 
accept as a mark of the veneration I have 
long iiad, and shall ever have, for your cha- 
racter, and of the claim I make to your con- 
tinued acquaintance. Your songs appear in 
the third volume, with your name in the 
index; as I assure you. Sir, I have heard 
your " TuUochgornui," particularly among 
our west-country folks, gi\en to many differ- 
ent names, and most commonly to the im- 
mortal author of "The Minstrel," who, 
indeed, never wrote anything superior to 
" Gie a sang, Montgomery cried." Your 
biothej has pivjaused me your verses to the 



Marquis of Huntly's reel, which certainlj 
deserve a place in the colla tion. My kind 
host, Mr. Cruikshank, of the high-School 
here, and said to be one of the best Latins 
in this age, begs me to make you his grate- 
ful acknowledgments for the entertainment 
he has got in a Latin publication of yours 
that I borrowed for him from your acquaint- 
ance and much respected friend in this place, 
the Reverend Dr. Webster. (64) Mr. Cruik- 
shank maintains that you write the best 
Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh 
to-morrow, but shaii return in three weeks. 
Your song you mentioned in your last, to 
the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and the 
other, which you say was done by a Lr.jther 
in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank 
you for a copy of each. I am ever, reverend 
Sir, with the most respectful esteem and 
sincere veneration, yours, R. B. 



NO. CVII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 
Edinburgh, February \5th, 1788. 

My Dear Friend — I received yours 
with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at 
Glasgow on iMonday evening ; and beg, if 
possible, you will meet me on Tuesday. I 
shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be 
found at Davies's Black Bull inn. I am 
hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I 
should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot 
possibly come, write me, if possible, to 
Glasgow, on Monday ; or direct to me at 
Mossgiel by Maucliliue ; and name a day 
and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight 
from this date, where I may meet you. I 
only stay a fortniglit in Ayrshire, and return 
to Edinburgh. I am ever, u>y dearest friend, 
youra^ R. B. 



NO. CVIII. 



TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCK. 

Edinburgh, February 11 th, 1788. 

Madam — You are much indebted t« 
some indispensable business I have had on 
my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened 
such a return for your obliging favour aa 
would have tired your patieuce. It but 
poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I 
am sensible of your kindness : it may be 
iiid of heaits such as yours is, and such, J 






;< 



<00 iiii 




-t^) 



r.<J^;if^ 



lllllll!l!llllll!lllllllll<^yg!i> 

, feurD 




TO MISS CHALMERS. 



sia 



hope, mine is, much more justly than 
Addi^ou applies it : — 

Some souls by iustiact to each other turn. 

There was something in my reception at 
Kilravock so ditferent from the cold, obse- 
quious. dancin<r-school bow of politeness, 
that it almost got into ray head that friend- 
ship had occupied her ground without the 
intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish 
I could transcribe, or rather transfuse into 
language, the glow of my heart when I read 
your letter. My ready fancy, with colours 
more mellow than life itself, painted the 
beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock ; the 
venerable grandeur of the castle ; the spread- 
ing woods ; the winding river, gladly leaving 
his unsiglitly, heathy source, and lingering 
with apparent delight as he passes the fairy 
walk at the bottom of the garden ; your late 
distressfid anxieties ; your present enjoy- 
ments , your dear little ang?l, the pride of 
your hopes; my aged fnend, venerable in 
worth and years, whose loyalty and other 
virtues will strongly entitle her to the 
support of the Almighty Spirit here, and his 
peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. 
You cannot imagine, iladam, how much 
such feelings delight me; they are my 
dearest proofs of my own iu iiortality. 
Should I never revisit the north, a^ probably 
I never will, nor again see your hospitable 
mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, 
to see your little feUow's name making a 
proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my 
heart >v.juld bound with pleasure. 

1 aui assisting a friend in a collection of 
Scottish songs, set to their proper tunes; 
every air worth preserving is to be included ; 
among others I have given '' Morag," and 
some few Highland airs which pleased me 
mo^, a dress which will he more generally 
known, though far, far inferior in re.il merit. 
As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I 
beg leave to present you with a copy of the 
work, as far as it is printed ; the !Man of 
Feeling, that first of men, has promised to 
transmit it by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfully 
to my venerable friend, and to your little 
Highland chieftdm. When you see the 
" two fair spirits of the hill," at Kil- 
di'ummie (65), tell them that I have done 
Diyscif the honour of setting myself down as 
one of their admirers for at least twenty 
years to come, consequently they must look 
upon me as an acquaintance for the same 
period; but, as the Apostle Paul says, "this 
I ask of grace, not of debt." I have the 
hounur to be. Madam, &c., R. B. 

2S 



MO. CIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Glasgow, Monday Evening, 9 ddock, 
Feb. mil, 1783. 

The attraction of love, I find, is iu an in- 
verse proportion to the attraction of the 
Newtonian philosophy. In the system of 
Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another 
the stronger is the attractive force ; in my 
system, every mile-stone that marked my 
progress from Clarinda, awakened a keener 
pang of attachment to her. 

How do you feel, my love ? Is your heart 
ill at ease ? I fear it. — God forbid that 
these persecutors should harass tiiat peace 
which is more precious to me than my own. 
Be assured I sliall ever think of you, muse 
on you, and, in my moments of devotion, 
pray for you. The hour that you are not in 
all my thoughts — " be that hour darkness ! 
let the shadows of death cover it ! let it not 
be numbered in the hours of the day !" 

— " When I forget the darling theme. 

Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no 

more ! 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !" 

I have just met with my old friend, the 
ship captain ; guess my pleasure ; — to meet 
you could alone have given me more. My 
brother \Villiam, too, the young saddler, has 
come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are 
we three spending the evening. 

I arrived here too late to write by post ; 
but I'll wrap half a dozen sheets of blank 
paper together, and send it by the fly, under 
the name of a parcel. You shall hear from 
me next post town. I would write you a 
long letter, but for the present circumstance 
of my friend. 

Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to 
propose your health by way of grace-drink. 
Sylvan DEa. 



TO ]\nSS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, February, 1783. 

To-morrow, my dear ]\Iadam, I leave 
Edinburgh. I have altered all ray plans 
of future life. A farm that I could live 
in, I could net find; and, indeed, after the 
necessary support my brother and the rest 
of the famib required, I could not \enture 
on farming iu that styl^ suitable to m/ 




f'^i^} 




819 



CORRESPO^^DENCE OF BURNS. 



/teling'S. l! 5U will condemn me for tlie 
next step 1 have taken. I have entered into 
the Excise. I stay in the west about three 
weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for 
six weeks' instructions ; afterwards, for I 
get employ instantly, I go oh il plait a Dieu 
^et moH Roi. I have chosen this, ray dear 
fiiend, after mature deliberation. The ques- 
tion is not at what door of fortune's palace 
shall we enter in, biit what doors does she 
open to us 1 I was not likely to get any 
thing to do. I wanted un but, which is a 
dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this 
witiiout any hanging on, or mortifying soli- 
citation ; it is immediate bread, and though 
poor iu comparison of the last eighteen 
months of my existence, 'tis luxury in com- 
parison of all my p eceding life : besides, the 
commissioners are some of them my acquaint- 
ances, and all of them my tirm friends. 

B.3. 



HO. CSI. 



TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Mjusr/id, February 24</t, 1788. 

My Dear Sir — I cannot get the proper 
direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the 
following will do : — To Mr. Jo. Hutcliinson, 
at Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benja- 
min Henriquez, merchant. Orange Street, 
Kingston. I arrived here, at my brother's, 
only yesterday, after fighting my way 
through Paisley and Kilmarnock against 
those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, 
the world, and the flesh — so terrible in the 
fields of dissipation. I have met with few 
incidents in my life \\hicli gave me so much 
pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There 
is a time of life beyond which we cannot 
form a tie worth the name of friendship. 
* Oh youth ! enchanting stage, profusely 
blest." Life is a fairy scene : almost all that 
deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure 
is only a charming delusion ; and in comes 
repining age, in all the gravity of hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly ^-hases away the 
bewitching phantom. vVhen I think of life, 
I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the 
course of economy, for the sake of worldly 
convenience and independence of mind ; to 
culti\ate intimacy with a few of the com- 
panions of youth, that they may be the 
friends of age ; ne\er to refuse my liquorish 
iiumour a handful of the sweet-meats of 
life, when they come not too dear ; and, for 
futurity — 



The present momei t is our aitn. 
The next we never saw ! 
How like you my phiUsophy? Give my 
best compliments to Mrs. B., and believe ml 
to be, my dear Sir, yours most truly, 

E. B. (66) 



HO. CXII. 



TO MISS CHALIMERS. 

March, 1788. 

Nowfortliat wayward, unfortunate thin?, 
myself. I have broke measures with Creech, 
and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen 
letter. He replied iu terms of chastisement, 
and promised me upon his honour that I 
should have the account on Monday ; but 
this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a 
word from him. God have mercy on me ! 
a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortu- 
nate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim 
of rebellious pride, hypocliondriac imagina- 
tion, agonising sensibility, and bedlam 
passions ! 

" I wish that I were dead, but I'm no Uke 
to die ! " I had lately " a hair-breadth 'scape 
in th' immiueut deadly breach " of love too 
Thank my stars, I got olf heart-whole, 
" more fieyd than hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this nif)ment got a hint ; I fear I 
am something like — undone — but I hojje for 
the best. Come, stubborn pride and un- 
shrinking resolution ; accompany me through 
this, to me, miserable world ! You must 
not desert me. Your friemlship I think I 
can count on, though I should date my letters 
from a marching regiment. Early in life, 
and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting 
drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously thougl^ 
life at this moment presents me with but a 
melancholy path: but — my limb will soon be 
sound, and I shall struggle on. R. B. 



TO CLARINDA. 

Cumnock, March 2nd, 1783. 

I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous 
Llarinda will not think my silence, for now 
a long week (67), has been in any degree 
owing to my forgetfuluess. I have been 
tossed about through the country ever since 
I wrote you ; and am here, returning from 
Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post-olRce o/ 



TO ROBERT AIXSLTE, ESCt. 



817 



rtie place, with just so long time as my 
horse eats his corn, to write you. I have 
been hurried with business and dissipation 
ftlmost equal to the insidious decree of the 
Persian monarcli's mandate, when he forbade 
asking petition of God or man for forty days. 
Had the venerable prophet been as tlirong 
as I, he had not broken tLe decree, at least 
not thrice a-day. 

I am thinking my farming scheme will yet 
hold. A worthy intelligent farmer, my 
father's friend and my own, has been with 
me on the spot : he thinks the bargain prac- 
ticable. I am myself, on a more serious 
review of the lands, much better pleased 
with them. I won't mention this in writing 

to any body but you and . Don't 

accuse me of being tickle : I have the two 
plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt 
the one most likely to procure me indepen- 
dence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. 
I long to see you : your image is omnipre- 
sent to me ; nay, I am convinced I would 
soon idolatrize it most seriously ; so much 
do absence and memory improve the medium 
through which one sees the much-loved 
object. To-night, at the sacred hour of 
eight, I expect to meet you — at the Throne 
of Grace. I hope, as I go home to night, to 
find a letter from you at the post-otflce in 
Mauchline. I have jtist once seen that dear 
hand since I left Edinburgh — a letter indeed 
which much affected me. Tell me, first of 
womankind ! will my warmest attachment, 
my sincerest friendship, my correspondence, 
will they be any compensation for the sacri- 
fices you make for my sake ! If they will, 
they are yours. If 1 settle ou the farm I 
propose, I am just a day and a half's ride 
from Edinburgh. We will meet — don't you 
say, " perhaps too often !" 

Farewell, my lair, my charming Poetess ! 
May all good things ever attend you ! I am 
ever, my dearest Jladam, yours, 

Sylvander. 



KO. CXIT. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHVNK. 

Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. 

My Dear Sir — Apol-iigies for not 
writing are frequently like apologies for not 
Bulging — the apology better than the song. 
I have fought my way severely through the 
savage hospitality of this country, to 
send every guest drunk to bed if thfy 



I executid your commission in Glasgow 
and I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the 
same price and the very same kind as 
your former parcel, for the gentleman 
recollected your buying there perfectly 
well. 

I should return my thanks for your • 

hospitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, 
as I know none can do it justice) to a poor 
wayfaring bard, who was spent and almost 
overpowered, fighting with prosaic wicked- 
nesses in high places ; but I am afi-aid le-t 
you should burn the letter whenever you 
come to the passage, so I pass over it in 
silence. I am just returned from visiting 
Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told 
you I would take with me (63) was highly 
pleased with the farm; and as he is, without 
exception, the most intelligent farmer in th« 
country, he has staggered me a good deal. 
I have the two plans of life before me; I 
I shall balance them to the best of my 
judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I 
have written Jlr. Miller, and shall wait on 
him w hen I come to town, which shall be the 
beginning or middle of next week : I would 
be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather 
worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely 
stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions. 
I only mention these ideas to you ; and, 
indeed, except Mr. Ahislie, whom I intend 
^vriting to to-morrow, I will not write at all 
to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would 
send my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he 
would be hurt if he knew I wrote to any 
body and not to him ; so I shall only beg 
my best, kindest, kindest compliments to 
my worthy hostess, and the sweet little rose- 
bud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of 
life, either as an Excise-officer, or as a 
farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from 
a regular correspondence with the only man 
almost I ever saw who joined the most 
attentive prudence with the warmest gene- 
rosity. 

I am much interested for that best o( 
men, Mr. Wood; I hope he is in better 
health and spirits than when I saw him last. 
I am ever, my dearest friend, your obliged 
humble servant, R. B. 



NO. CXV. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Eso. 

Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. 

My Dear Friend — ^I am just returneil 
from Mr. Miller's farm. My Did fri-jiid 



818 



COEUESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



wlnm I toD^ with me was highly pleased 
with the bargain, and advised me to accept 
of it. He is tlie most intelligent, sensible 
farmer in the country, and Liis advice has 
staggered me a good deal. I have the two 
plans before me: I shall endeavour to balance 
them to the best of my judgment, and fix 
on the most eligible. Ou the whole, if I 
find Mr. Miller in the "ame favourable dis- 
position as when I saw him last, I shall in 
all probability turn farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation, and 
nnder much buffetting of the wicked one, 
since I canre to this country. Jean I found 
banished, forlorn, destitute and friendless ; 
I have reconciled her to her fate, and I have 
reconciled her to her mother. 

I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next 
neek. My farming ideas I shall keep pri- 
vate till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda 
yesterday, and she tells me she has got no 
letter of mine but one. Tell her that I 
wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmar- 
nock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from 
Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. In- 
deed, she is the only persoft in Edinburgh I 
have written to till this day. How are your 
soul and body putting up ? — a little like man 
■nd wife, I suppose. K. B. 



KO. CXTI. 

TO CLARINDA. 



Momjiel, March 1th, 1788. 

Clarinda, I have been so stung with 
your reproach for unkiudness — a sin so unlike 
me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the 
whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and 
ninth articles excepted — that I believe I shall 
not rest in my grave about it, if I die before 
I see you. You have often allowed me the 
head to judge, and the heart to feel, the 
influence of ifemale excellence. Was it not 
ilasphemy, then, against your own charms, 
and agauist my feelings, to suppose that a 
sliort fortnight could abate my passion ? 
You, my Love, may have your cares and 
anxieties to "disturb you, but they are the 
usual occurrences of life ; your future views 
are fixed, and your mind in a settled routine. 
Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, 
make a little allowance for a man, after long 
absence, paying a short visit to a country 
full of frienils, relations and early intimates? 
Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what 
thoughts, what cares, what anxious fore- 
iiodiuj^s, hopes and fears, must crowd the 



breast of the man of keen sensibility, whea 
no less is on the tapis than his aim, 1: is em- 
ployment, his very existence, through future 
life"? 

Now that, not my apology, but my defence, 
is made, I feel my soul respire more easily. 
I know you will go along with me in my 
justification — would to Heaven you could 
in my adoption too ! I mean an adoption 
beneath the stars^an adoption where I 
might revel in the immediate beams of 

" Her, the bright sun of all her sex." 

I would not ha\'e you, my dear Madam, 

so much hurt at Miss 's coldness, "fis 

placing yourself below her, an honour she 
by no means deserves. We ought, when we 
wish to be economists in happiness — we 
ought, in the first place, to fix the standard 
of our own character; and when, on full ex- 
amination, we know where we stand, and 
how much ground we occupy, let us contend 
for it as property : and those who seem to 
doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let ua 
either pity their prejudices, or despise their 
judgment. I know, ray dear, you will say 
this is self-conceit ; but I call it self-know- 
ledge. The one is the overweening opinioa 
of a fool, who fancies himself to be what 
he wishes himself to be thought ; the other 
is the honest justice that a man of sense, 
who has thoroughly examined the subject, 
owes to himself. Without this standard, 
this column in our own mind, we are per- 
petually at the mercy of the petidance, 
the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very 
weakness and wickedness of our fellow- 
creatures. 

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm my- 
self in the doctrine which, I assure you, I 
sometimes need; and because I know that 
this causes you often much disquiet. — To 

return to Miss : she is most certainly 

a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very 
few, in goodness of heart. But cfin she 
boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? 
Not even prejudice will dare to say so. 
For penetration and discernment, Clarinda 

sees far beyond her : to wit, Miss dare 

make no pretence ; to Clarinda's wit, scarcely 
any of her sex dare make pretence. Per- 
sonal charms, it would be ridiculous to run 
the parallel. And for conduct in life. Miss 

was never called out, either much 

to do or to suflfer ; Clarinda has been both ; 
and has performed her part where Mis?, 
would have sunk at the bare idea. 

Away, then, with thsse disquietudes ! Let 
us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbar- 
chau — " Lord, seud us a guid conceit o 



TO MR. MLTIR. 



Sit 



oiijsel?* Or, in the words of the auld 

"Who do** nie disdain, I can scorn them 
again. 
And I'll never mind any such foes." 

There is an error in the commerce of in- 
timacy with those who are perpetually taking 
what they, in the way of exchange, have not 
)i equivalent to give us ; and, what is still 
worse, we have no idea of the value of our 
goods. Happy is our lot, indeed, when we 
meet with an honest merchant, who is 
qualified to deal with us on our own terms ; 
but that is a rarity. With almost every 
body we must pocket our pearls, less or 
mure, and learn, in the old Scotch phrase — 
" To gie sic like as we get." For this rea- 
son, one should try to erect a kind of bank 
or store-house in one's own mind ; or as the 
Psalmist says, " We shoidd commune with 
our own hearts, and be still." This is ex- 
actly * * * • « 
[rest ivantinr).'] 



NO. CXVII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Maucliline, March 7th, 1788. 

I HAVE heen out of the country, my dear 
friend, and have not had an opportunity of 
writing till now, when I am afraid you will 
be gone out of the country too. I have 
been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps 
I may settle in the character of a farmer. I 
have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and 
have ever been so little a man of business, 
that it will take no ordinary effort to bring 
my mind properly into the routine; but you 
\(ill say a " great effort is worthy of you." 
I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity 
ivith all the stimulating comphiueuts I can 
think of Men of grave, geometrical minds, — 
the sons of "which was to be demonstrated," 
— may cry up reason as much as they please ; 
but I have always found an honest passion, 
or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in tlie 
warfare of this world. Reason almost always 
comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor 
devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to 
add her reproaches to his other grievances. 

I am gratified with your tiud uiquiries 
jfter Jean; as, after all, I may say with 
Othello— 



"Excellent wretch \ 



Perdition catch my sovl. but I do love thee!" 

C go for Edmburgh ou Monday. 

VouM. R. B. 



NO. CXVIIl. 

TO MR MUIR, 

Mosayiel, March 7ih 1788. 

Dear Sir — I have particularly changed 
my ideas, since I «aw you. I took 
old Glenconner »'ith me to Mr. Miller's 
farm, and he was so p'leased with it, that I 
have wrote an offer to jMr. Miller, which if 
he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, 
the happiest of hves when a man can live by 
it. In this case, I shall not stay in Edin- 
burgh above a week. I set out on iNIonday, 
and would have come by Kilmarnock, but 
there are several small sums owing me for 
my first edition about Galston and Newmills, 
and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my 
business and reach Glasgow by night. When 
I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to 
make some kind of acknowledgment for all 
the kindness I owe your friendship. Now 
that I hope to settle with some credit and 
comfort at home, there was not any friend- 
ship or friendly correspondence that promised 
me more pleasure than yours ; I hope I will 
not be disappointed. I trust the spring will 
renew your shattered frame, and make your 
friends happy. You and I have often agreed 
that life is no great blessing on the whole. 
The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning 
age, is 

Dark as was chaos, ere the infant aim 
"Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. 
If we lie down in the grave, the whole man 
a piece of broken machinery, to moulder 
with the clods of the valley, be it so ; at 
least there is an end of pain, care, woes and 
wants : if that part of us called mind does 
survive the apparent destruction of the man 
— away with old-wife prejudices and tales ! 
Every age and every nation has had a 
different set of stories ; and as the many 
are always weak of consequence, they have 
often, perhaps always, been deceived : a luaa 
conscious of having acted an honest psrt 
among his fellow-creatures — even granting 
that he may have been the sport at times of 
passions and instincts — he goes to a great 
unknown Being, who could have no other 
end in giving /lim existence but to make 
him happy, who gave him those passions 
and instincts, and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; 
and I know they are not far different from 
yours. It becomes a man of sense to think 
for himself, particularly ia a case where all 



B2D 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



iiien ate equally interested, and where, in- 
deed, all meu are equally in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful 
meeting; 1 K. B. 



MO. cxix. (69) 
TO CLARINDA. 

I OWN myself guilty, Clariuda ; I should 
have written you last week ; but when you 
reeoUect, my dcaiest Madam, that your's of 
this night's post is only the third I have got 
from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth 
I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, 
with a good grace, for uukindness. I have 
always some kind of idea, not to sit down 
to write a letter, except I have time and 
possession of my faculties so as to do some 
justice to my letter; which at present is 
rarely my situation. For instance, yester- 
day I dined at a friend's at some distance ; 
the savage hospitality of this country spent 
me the most part of the night over the 
nauseous potion in the bowl : this day^ 
sick — head ache— low spuited — miseiable 
• — fasting, except for a draught of water or 
small beer : now eight o'clock at night — 
only able to crawl ten minutes' walk into 
Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasure- 
able hope of hearing from the mistress of 
my soul. 

But, a truce to all this ! When I sit 
down to write to you, all is harmony and 
peace. An hundred times a-day do I 
figure you, before your taper, your book or 
work laid aside, as I get within the room. 
How happy have I been ! and how little of 
that scantling portion of time, called the 
life of man, is sacred to happiness ! I 
could moralize to-night like a death's 
head : — 

"O what is life, that thoughtless wish «f 

all! 
A drop of horey in a draught of gall." 

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little 
sickness clogs the wheels of life, than the 
thoughtless career we run in the hour of 
health. "None saith, where is God, my 
Maker, that giveth songs in the night ; who 
teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts 
of the field, and more understanding than 
the fowls of the air." 

Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! 
Give me to act up to the dignity of my 
nature ! Give me to feel " another's woe ; " 
md continue with me that dear-lov'd friend 
that feels with mine I 



The dignified and dignifying conscious 
ness of an honest man, and the well- 
grounded trust in approving Heaven, are 
two most substantial sources of happiness. 

Sylvander. 



TO MISS 



My Dear Countrywoman — ^I am so 
impatient to show you that I am once more 
at peace with you, that I send you the book 
I mentioned directly, ratlier than wait the 
uncertain time of my seeing you. I am 
afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins's Poems, 
which I promised to jMiss Irvin. If I can 
find them, I will forward them by you ; if 
not, you must apologise for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell 
you that your piano and you together have 
played the deuce somehow about my heart. 
]\Iy breast has been widowed these many 
months, and I thought myself proof against 
the fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid 
you wiU " feelingly con\ince me what I am." 
I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure 
what is the matter with me. I have one 
miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, 
or look kindly to another, it gives me a 
draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
wayward wsh to be with you ten minutes 
by yourself, though what I would say. 
Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know 
not. I have no formed design in all this, 
but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write 
you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You 
may perhaps give yourself airs of distance 
on this, and that will completely cure me ; 
but I wish you would not — just let us meet, 
if you please, in the old beaten way of 
friendship. 

I will not subseribe myself your humble 
servant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least 
fifty miles off from the heart; but I will 
conclude with sincerely wishing that the 
Great Protector of innocence may shield yea 
from the barbed dart of calumny, and hat i 
you by the covert snare of deceit. R. B. 



NO. CXXI. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, March I4th, 1788. 

T KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
be pleased with the news when I tell you, * 



. -^p !ii:.,.iiii:iiiinii 




iiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii;i;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii: 




TO MR. ROBERT CLEGIIORN. 



321 



• * * 1 have «t last taken a lease of a farm. 
Yesternight I completed a bari^ain with Mr. 
Miller of Dalswiuton for the farm of Ellis- 
land, on the banks of the Nith, between 
nve and six miles above Dumfries. I beg'in 
at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, 
&c, ; and Heaven be my help ! for it will 
take a strong effort to bring my mind into 
the routine of business. I have discharged 
all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, 
and pleasures — a motley host 1 and have 
literally and strictly retained only the ideas 
of a few friends which I have incorporated 
into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's 
observation, " Where much is attempted, 
somethhig is done." Firmness, both in 
suffering and exertion, is a character I would 
wish to be thought to possess ; and have 
always despised the whining yelp of com- 
plaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. 

Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this 
wiiiter, and begged rae to remember her to 
you the first time I wrote to you. Surely 
woman, amiable woman, is often made ia 
vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher 
pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the dirt 
of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage 
of pleasure ; formed indeed for, and highly 
susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture ; but 
that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the 
mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, 
or wickedness of an animal at all times com- 
paratively unfeeling, and often brutal. 

B. B. 



of all ; but God help us, who ai* wits or 
witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
says to Ross, the poet of his muse Scota, 
from which, by the bye, I took the idea of 
Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scot- 
tish dialect, which perhaps you have never 
seen) : — 

Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set aiild Scota on her legs : 
Lang hid she lien wi' beffs and flego, 

Bumbaz'd and dizzie, • 
Her fi'.idle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae's me, poor hizzie. 

E. B. 



NO. CXXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossyiel, March 17 th, 1788. 

Madam — The last paragraph in yours of 
the 30th February affected me most, so I 
shall begin my answer where you ended 
your letter. That I am often a siimer, with 
any little wit I have, I do confess : but I 
have taxed my recollection to no purpose, 
to find out when it was employed against 
you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great 
deal worse than I do the devil, at least as 
Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it 
myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, 
my honoured friend, who cannot appear iu 
any light but you are sure of being respect- 
able — you can afford to pass by an occasion 
to display your wit, because you may de- 
pend tor fame on your sense; or, if you 
nhoost to be silent, you know you can rely 
on the gratitude of many, and the esteem 



NO. CXXIII. 



TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Glasgow, March 2Qlh, 1738. 

I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, 
in not writing to you, and sending you the 
Directory. I have been getting my tack 
extended, as I have taken a farm, and I have 
been racking shop accovmts with Mr, 
Creech ; both of which, together with watch- 
ing, fatigue, and a load of care almost too 
heavy for my shoulders, have in some de- 
gree actually fevered rae. 1 really forgot 
the Directory yesterday, which vex-ed me; 
but I was convulsed vWth rage a great piirt 
of the day. I have to thank you for the 
ingenious, friendly and elegant epistle from 
your friend ]\Ir. Crawford. I shall certainly 
write to him, but not now. This is merely 
a card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries- 
shire, where many perplexing arrangements 
await me. I am vexed about the Directory ; 
but, my dear Sir, forgive me : these eight 
days 1 have been positively crazed. My 
compliments to Mrs. B. I shall ivrite to 
you at Grenada. I am ever, my dearest 
friend, youra, R. B 



NO. cxxrv. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, March Sl.vf, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a tract of melancholy, joyless i juirs, 
between Galloway aud Ayrshire, it bevug 



22 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, 
and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your 
fivoxirite air, "Captain O'Kean," coming at 
length into my head, I tried these words to 
it. (70) You will see that the first part of 
the tune must be repeated. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, 
but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I 
leave it with you to try if they suit the 
measure of the music. 

I am so hara.ised with care and anxiety, 
about this farming project of mine, that my 
muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders, or followed 
a tinker. Wlsen I am fairly got into the 
routine of business, I shall trouble you with 
a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries 
respecting farming : at present, the world 
sets such a load on my mind that it has 
effaced almost every trace of the poet in 
me. 

My very best compliments and good 
wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. R. B. 



NO. CXXT. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

MaucMiue, April 7th, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo 
for letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange ! 
how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our 
judgments of one another ! Even I, who 
pique my skill in marking characters — be- 
cause I am too proud of my character as a 
man to be dazzled in my judgment for 
glaring wealth, and too proud of my situa- 
tion as a poor man to be biassed against 
squalid poverty — I was unacquainted with 
Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in 
mon grand hut, the sober science of hfe. I 
have lately made some sacrifices, for which, 
were I vioci voce with you to paint the situa- 
tion and recount the circumstances (71), you 
would applaud me. K. B. 



NO. cxxvi. 
TO MR. WILLAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

Mauchline, April 7th, 1788. 
I HAVE not delayed so long to write you. 
Bay much respected friend, because I thought 



no farther of my promise. I have long riiot 

given up that kind of formal correspondence, 
where one sits down irksomely to write a 
letter, because we think we are in duty 
bound so to do. 

I have been roving over the country, an 
the farm I have taken is forty miles from this 
place, hiring servants and preparing matters ; 
but most of all, I am earnestly busy to brntg 
about a revolution in my own mind. A.s, 
till within these eighteen months, I never 
was the wealthy master of ten guineas, my 
knowledge of business is to learn ; add to 
this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipa- 
tion have enervated my mind to an alarming 
degree. Skill in the sober science of life li 
my most serious and hourly study. I 
have dropped all conversation and al! reading 
(prose reading) but what tends in some way 
or other to my serious aim. Except ous 
worthy young fellow, I have not one single 
correspondent in Edinburgh. You have 
indeed kindly made me an oiler of that kind. 
The world of wits, and gens comme il faut 
which I lately left, and with whom I never 
again will intimately mix — from that port. 
Sir, I expect your Gazette: what les beaux 
esprits are saying, what they are doing, and 
what they are singing. Any sober intelli- 
gence from my sequestered walks of life; 
any droll original ; any passing remark, 
important forsooth, because it is mine ; any 
httle poetic effort, however embroyth ; these, 
my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from 
me. \'\^hen I talk of poetic efforts, I must 
have it always understood, that I appeal 
from your wit and taste to your friendship 
and good nature. The first would be my 
favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; 
but the last, where I declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since 
I saw you. AVhen I meet with an old Scots 
air that has any facetious idea in its name, I 
ha\e a peculiar pleasure in following out 
that idea for a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better 
health than I did last time I called for you. 
A few lines from you, directed to me at 
Mauchhne, were it but to let me know how 
you are, will set my mind a good deal at 
peace. Now, never shun the idea of writing 
me, because perhaps you may be out of 
humour or spirits. I could give you a hun- 
dred good consequences atteuling a dull 
letter ; one, for example, and the remaining 
ninety-nine some other time — it will always 
serve to keep in countenance, ray much rs- 
spected Sir, your obliged friend and humUe 
servant, 

£. B. 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiu^ 




TO MR. JAMES SMITH. 



323 



NO. CXX^II. 



K) MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, April 2Sth, 1788. 

M;*DAM — ^Your powers of reprehension 
nrnst be great indeed, as I assure you they 
made my heart aclie with penitential pangs, 



correspondence, like the opei ling of a twenty- 
four gun battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous 
ideas — that is to say, if the man has any 
ideas ; for I know many who, in the animal- 
muster, pass for men, that are the scanty 
masters of only one idea on any given sub- 



even though I was really not guilty. As I I jg^^., and by far the greatest part of youj 
commence farmer at Whitsimday, you wdl | acquamtances and mine can barely boast of 
easily guess I must be pretty busy; but that | ije.^g^ r25— IS— 1-75 (or some such frac 



is not all. As I got the offer of the Excise 
business without solicitation, and as it costs 
me only six months' attendance for instruc- 
tions, to entitle me to a commission^which 
commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed; 
I thought five-and thirty pounds a-year was 
no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if for- 
tune in her jade tricks should kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she has 
lately helped him up. 



tional matter) ; so to let you a little into the 
secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
bewitching young huzzy of your acquaint- 
ance, to whom I have lately and privateJy 
given a matrimonial title to my corpus. 

Bode a robe and wear it. 
Bode a pock and bear it, 

says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to 
presage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been 



For this reason, I am at present attending | ^^^^^^P ^j^^j^^ ^'^ ,^g ji^^,,^ g,,g,^ ^y^^ best of 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at 
the Mount, and came to my brother's on celebr^ate"my twelfth weddi"ng""dayT' these 



women usually are to their partners of our 
sex, in similar circumstances, I reckon on 
twelve times a brace of children against I 



Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but 
for some nights preceding I had slept ui an 
apartment, where the force of the winds and 
rains was only mitigated by being sifted 
through numberless apertures in the windows, 
walls, &c. In consequence I was on Sunday, 
Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to stir 
out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a 
violent cold. 

You see. Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim le vrai n'est pas toiijours le vraisem- 
hlable. Your last was so full of expostula- 
tion, and \\'as something so like tli£ language 
of an offended friend, that I began to 
tremble for a correspondence, which I had 
with grateful pleasure set down as one of the 
greatest enjoyments of my future life. 

Your books have delighted me; Virgil, 
Dryden and Tasso, were all equally strangers 
to me; but of this more at large in my 
uext. K. E. 



NO. CXXTIII. 

TO MB JAMES SMITH. 

AVON PRINrFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

Mauchline, April 28th, 1788. 



Bkwark of your Strasburgh, my good 
Ml 1 Look OB this as the opening of • 

29 



twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossip- 
pings, twenty-four christenings (I mean one 
equal to two), and I hope, by the blessing of 
the God of my fathers, to make them twenty- 
four dutiful children to their parents, twentj*. 
four useful members of society, and twen( > 
four approved servants of their God ! * * * 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the wife w} en 
site was stealing sheep. You see wh»'; s 
lamp I have hung up to lighten yoiur p9 iis^ 
when you are idle enough to explore h© 
combinations and relations of my i(f ;a». 
'Tis now as plain as a pike-staff wl y a 
twenty-four gun battery was a metaph r I 
could readily employ. 

Now for business. I intend to pr» jent 
Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article 
of which I dare say you have variety : 'tis 
my tirst present to her since I have inevo- 
cably called her mine, and I have a kiwd of 
whimsical wish to get her the first said 
present from an old and much valued firiend 
of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on »fhose 
friendship I count myself possessed 0\ as a 
life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginnJig of 
sorrovfs ;" I will write you till your eyea 
ache reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Bums ('tis only her private desig. 
nation) begs her best comphmeuts tc y«iL 
K B. 



$2i 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



j»o. CXXIX. 
10 PKi^JESliOR DUGALD STEWART. 
Mauchline, May 3rd, 1788. 

Sir — I enclose you one or two more of 
my bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of 
honest gratitude have any influence with 
that great, unknovni Being who frames the 
chain of causes and events, pros])erity and 
happiness will attend your visit to the con- 
tinent, and return you safe to your native 
shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it 
Bs my privilege to acquaint you with my 
progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am 
sure I could say it with truth, that, next to 
my little fame, and the having it in my power 
to make life more comfortable to those whom 
nature has made dear to me, I shall ever 
regard your countenance, your patronage, 
your friendly good offices, as the most valued 
consequence of my late success in life. 

R. B. 



of him; though 1 am conscioiis my criti- 
cisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, 
as there I have ever felt and lamented m> 
want of learning most. R. B. 



MO. CXXX. 

TO IMRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, May 4th, 1788. 

Madam — Dryden's Virgil has delighted 
me. I do not know whether the critics will 
agree with me, but the Georgics are to me 
by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a 
species of WTiting entirely new to me, and 
has tilled my head with a thousand fancies 
of emulation : but, alas ! when I read the 
Georgics, and then survey :ny own powers, 
'tis like the idea of a Shetland pony, drawn 
up by th*; side of a thorough-bred hunter, to 
start fo7 the plate. I own 1 am disappointed 
in the .^Eneid. Faultless correctness may 
please, and does highly please the lettered 
critic : but to that awful character I have 
not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
know whether I do not hazard my preten- 
sions to be a critic of any kind, when I say 
that I think Virgil, in many instances, a 
servile copier of Homer. If I had the 
Odyssey by me, I could parallel many pas- 
sages where Virgil has evidently copied. Out 
by no means improved. Homer. Nor can I 
think there is anything of this owing to the 
translators ; for, from everything 1 have seen 
of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency 
of language. Pope's master. I have not 
perused Tasso enough to form an opinion — 
tu some fiiturt letter you shall have my ideas 



WO. CXXXI. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchline, May 2&th, 1783. 

My dear Friend — I am two kind letter* 
in your debt ; hut I have been from home, 
and horridly busy, buying and preparing for 
my farming business, over and above the 
plague of my Excise instructions, which this 
week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many 
future years' correspondence between us, 
'tis foolish to talk of excusnig dull epistles ; 
a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have 
the pleasure to tell you that I have been 
extremely fortunate in all my buyings and 
bargainings hitherto — JNIrs. Burns not ex- 
cepted; which title I now avow to the 
world. I am truly pleased with this last 
affair ; it has indeed added to my anxieties 
for futurity, but it has given a stability to 
my mind and resolutions unknown before ; 
and the poor girl has the most sacred en- 
thusiasm of attachment to me, and has not 
a ■n'ish but to gratify my every idea of her 
deportment. I uu interrupted. — Farewell ! 
my dear Sir, R. B. 



WO. CXXXIL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

May 27th, 1788. 

Madam — I have been torturing my plii- 
losophy to no purpose, to account for that 
kind partiality of yours, which has followed 
me, in my return to the shade of life, with 
assiduous benevolence. Often' did I regret, 
in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp 
appearance, that "here I had no continuing 
city ;" and, but for the consolation of a few 
solid guineas, could almost lament the time 
that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of con- 
ceit with the sworn companions of my road 
through life^insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relatnig tc 
the unequal distribution of the good things 
of tliis life that give me more ve&atiou Q 




TO urn. DTTM.OP. 



mean in what I see around me) than the im- 
nortauce tlie opulent bestow on their trifling 
family affairs, compared with the very same 
things on the contracted scale of a cottage. 
Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an 
hour or two at a good woman's tire-side, 
where the planks that composed the floor 
were decorated with a splendid carpet, and 
tt e gay table sparkled with silver and cliina. 
"lis now about term-day, and there has been 
a revolution among those creatures, «ho, 
though in appearance partakers, and equally 
noble partakers, of the same nature with 
Madame, are from time to time — their 
nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, 
wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay a good 
part of their very thoughts— sold for months 
and years, not only to the necessities, the 
conveniences, but the caprices, of the im- 
portant few. We talked of the insigniiicant 
creatures; nay, notwithstanding their general 
stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But 
light be the turf upon his breast who 
taught, "Keverence thyself" We looked 
down on the unpolished wretches, their im- 
pertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the 
carelessness of his ramble, -or tosses in the 
air in the wantonness of his pride. 

R. B. 



BO. CXXXIII, 

to THE SAME. 

Ellisland, June \Ztli, 1788. 

Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless 
pain, [chain. 

And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd 
Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured 
friend, that I have been on my farm. A 
solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; 
far from every object I love, or by whom I 
am beloved; not any acquaintance older 
than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the 
old nnxre I ride on ; while uncouth cares and 
novel plaus hourly insult my awkward igno- 
rance and bashful inexperience. There is a 
foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the 
hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger then the life. Extreme 



sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and 
disappointments, at that period of my exist- 
ence when the soul is laying ii? her cargo 
of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, 
the principal cause of this unhappy frame of 
mind. 

The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ? 
&c. 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am in- 
deed a husband. 
« * « « « • 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal 
stranger My preservative from the first is 
the most thorough consciousness of her 
sentiments of honour, and her attachment 
to me : my antidote against the last is 
my long and deep-rooted affection for 
her. 

In housewife matters, of aptness to learn 
and activity to execute, she is eminently 
mistress : and during my absence in Niths- 
dale, she is regularly and constantly ap- 
prentice to my mother and sisters in their 
dairy and other rural business. 

The muses must not be offended when I 
tell them, the concerns of my wife and family 
will, in my mind, always take the pas ; but I 
assiu'e them their ladyships will ever come 
next in place. 

You are right that a bachelor state would 
have insured me more friends ; but, from a 
cause you will easily guess, conscious peace 
in the enjoyment of my own mind, and 
unmistrusting confidence in approaching 
my God, would seldom have been of the 
number. 

I found a once much-loved and still 
much-loved female, literally and truly cast 
out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but 
I enabled her to purchase a shelter — there ia 
no sporting with a fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweet- 
ness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully 
devoted with all its powers to love me; 
vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, 
set off to the best advantage by a more 
than commonly handsome figure ; these, I 
think, in a woman, may make a good wife, 
though she should never have read a page 
but the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, nor have danced in a brighte* 
assembly than a peony pay wedding. 

R. B. 



'^'"Q(?^ . 




326 



CORRESPONDENCE OP Bimi<rs. 



no. CXXXIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

EUisland, June Uth, 1788. 

Tins is now the third day, my dearest 
Sir, that I have sojourned in these regions ; 
and during these three days you have occu- 
pied more of my thoughts tlian in three 
weeks preceding : in Ayrshire I have several 
variations of friendship's compass, here it 
pomts invariably to the pole. My farm gives 
nie a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, 
but I hate the language €tf complaint. Job, 
or some one of his friends, says well — " Why 
should a living man complain ? " 

I have lately been much mortified with 
contemplating an unlucky imperfection in 
the very framing and construction of my 
soul ; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of 
her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of 
craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do 
not mean any comphment to my ingenuous- 
ness, or to hint that the defect is in con- 
sequence of the imsuspicious simplicity of 
conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, 
in some way or other, an imperfection in the 
mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
moditication of dullness. In two or three 
instances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare 
of life, been bred to arms among the ligbt- 
horse — the piquet-guards of fancy — a kind 
of hussars and lliglilanders of the brain ; 
but I am firmly resolved to sell out of those 
giddy battalUons, who have no ideas of a 
battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but 
storming the town. Cost what it will, I am 
determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the 
artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is 
the subject of your thoughts, besides the 
great studies of your profession ? You said 
something about religion in your last. I 
don't exactly rememl)er what it was, as the 
letter is in Ayrsliire ; but I thought it not 
only prettily said, but nobly thought. You 
will make a noble fellow if once you were | 
married. I make no reservation of your 
being well married : you have so much sense 
•nd knowledge of human nature, that 
though you may not realise, perhaps, the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill 
married. 

W ?re it not fo r the terrors of my ticklish ! 
situation respecting provision for a family of • 
«;hildren, I am decidedly of opinion that the ' 
**«!) T liave taken is vastly for my happi- ' 



uess. (72J As it is, I look to the Exciifc 
scheme as a cert»i'<ty of maintenance ; a 
maintenance! — luxury to what either Mrs. 
Eurus or I were born to. Adieu ! 

R.B. 



wo. cxxxv. 

TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, June 23rd, 1788. 

This letter, my dear Sir, is only a busi- 
ness scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in 
your town, has executed a profile of Dr. 
Blacklock for me ; do me the favour to call 
for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which 
put in the same size as the doctor's. The 
account of both profiles will be fifteen 
shillings, which I have given to James 
Connel, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you 
when you give him the parcel. You must 
not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is 
short ; when I sat to Mr. Miers, I am sure 
he did not exceed two minutes. I propose 
hanging Lord Glencairn, the doctor, and 
you, in trio over my new chimney-piece tliac 
is to be. Adieu. R. B. 



HO. CXXXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Eiiuland, June 30th, 1788. 

My Dbar Sir — I just now received youi 
brief epistle ; and, to take vengeance on 
your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long 
sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at 
the top of the page, intending to scribble ou 
to the very last corner. 

I am vexed at that affair of the * * • 
but dare not enlarge on tlie subject uiiti 
you send me your direction, as 1 suppose 
that will be altered on your late master and 
friend's death. (73) I am concerned for the 
old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to 
your disadvantage in any respect — for an old 
man's dying, except he liave been a very 
benevolent character, or in some particular 
situation of life that the welfare of tiie pool 
or the helpless depended on him, I think it 
an event of the most trifling moment to the 
world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent 
animal, but he is dropped into sucli a needy 
situation here in this vexatious world, and 
has such a whore-son, hungry, growling, 
multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, 
passions and desires about hira, ready t« 
devour hira for want of other food, that it 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 



327 



fact he mast lay aside his jares for others 
that he may look properly to himself. You 
have been imposed upon in paying Mr. 
Wiers for the profile of a Mr. H. I did not 
mention it in my letter to you, nor did I 
ever give Mr. Miers any such order. I have 
no objection to lose the money, but I will 
not have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I 
mentioned only fifteen shillings to him, I will 
rather enclose you a guinea-note. I have it 
not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a so- 
journer in a strange land in this place ; but 
in a day or two i return to Mauchline, and 
tliere I have the bank-notes through the 
house like salt permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking 
luinecessarily of one's private att'airs. I have 
just now been interrupted by one of my new 
neighbours, who has made himself absolutely 
contemptible in my eyes by his silly, garru- 
lous pruriency. I know it has been a fault 
of my own, too ; but from this moment I 
abjure it as I would the service of hell ! 
Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of 
that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack j 
their jokes on prudence ; but 'tis a squalid j 
vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, im- | 
prudence respecting money matters is much 
more pardonable than imprudence respecting 
character. I have no objection to prefer 
prodigality to avarice, ui some few mstances; 
but I appeal to your observation if you have 
not met, with the same disingenuousness, 
the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and dis- 
integritive depravity of principle, in the 
hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the 
unfeeling children of parsimony. I have 
every possible reverence for the niuch-talked- 
of world beyond the grave, and I wish that 
which piety believes, and virtue deserves, 
may be all matter-of-fact. But in things 
belonging to and terminating in this present 
scene of existence, man has serious and 
interesting business on hand. Wkether a 
maa shall shake hands with welcome in the 
distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink 
from contempt in the abject corner of in- 
significance : whetlier he shall wanton under 
the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself 
in the comfortable latitudes of easy conve- 
nience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary 
povert/ ; whether he shall rise in the manly 
consciousness of self-approving mind, or 
sink beneath a galling load of regret and 
remorse — these are alternatives of the last 
moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occa- 
fiionally to sermonise too; I wish you 
vouiid, ill charily, favour me with a sheet 



full in your own way. I admire the close 
of a letter Lord Bolingbioke writes to Dean 
Swift : — " Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy 
faults I love thee entirely ; make au effort to 
love me with all mine ! " Humble servaat, 
and all that trumpery, is now such a pros- 
tituted business, that honest friendslfip, 
in her sincere way, must have recourse 
to her primitive, simple, farewell ! 

KB. 



NO. CXXXVII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

My Dear Hill — I shall say nothing 
to your mad present. (74) You have so 
long and often been of important service to 
me, and I suppose you mean to go on con- 
ferring obligations until I siiall not be able 
to lift up my face before you. In the mean- 
time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it 
happened to be a cold day in which he nnulg 
his will, ordered his servants great-coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been this 
week plagued with an indigestion, I have 
sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk 
cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil ; nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one ot 
his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight 
of successfid knavery, and sicken to loathing 
at the noise and noneense of self-important 
folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch 
takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my 
dinner ; the proud man's wine so offends 
my palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; 
and the pulverised, feathered, pert coxcomb, 
is so disgustful in my nostril, that my sto- 
mach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you 
are no niggard of your good things among 
your friends, and some of them are in much 
need of a slice. There, in my eye, is our 
friend SmeUie ; a man positively of the first 
abilities and greatest strength of mind, as 
well as one of the best hearts and keenest 
wits that I ever met with ; when you see 
him— as, alas ! he too is smarting at the 
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated 
by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a 
bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, 
but if you add a tankard of brown stout, 
and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like t)* 
moruing mist before the summer sun 



29* 




illllllllllllllHlllllllHllllllinilH 



Mry^ 



32S 



COr.RE^PONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Candlish, the earliest friend, except my 
only brother, that I have on earth, and one 
of the worthiest fellows that ever any man 
called by the name of friend, if a luncheon 
of my cheese would help to rid him of some 
of his superabundant modesty, you would 
do well to give it him. 

David (75), with his Courant, comes, too, 
Ecross my recollection, and I beg you will 
help him larjjcly from the said ewe-milk 
cheese, to enable him to digest those be- 
daubing paragraphs with which he is 
eternally larding the lean characters of cer- 
tain great men in a certain f^reat town. I 
grant you the periods are very well 
turned ; so, a fresh egg is a very good 
thing, but when thrown at a man in a 
pillory, it does not at all improve his 
figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
of the e>^g. 

My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish 
olso to be a partaker ; not to digest his 
spleen, for that he lauglis off, but to digest 
his last night's wine at the last field-day of 
the Crochallan corps. (76) 

Among our common friends I must not 
forget one of the dearest of them — Cun- 
ningham. (^7) The brutality, insolence 
and selfishness of a world unworthy of 
having such a fellow as he is in it, I know 
8ticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
him to anything that will make him a 
little easier on that score, it wiU be very 
obliging. 

As to honest John Somerville, he is 
•uch a contented, happy man, that I know 
not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, 
^e may not have got the better of a parcel 
')f modest anecdotes which a certain poet 
^ave him one night at supper, the last time 
the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men 
of law, I shall have nothing to do with 
them professionally ; — the faculty are beyond 
my prescription. As to their clients, that 
is another thing; God knows, they have 
much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity 
of erudition, and their liberality of senti- 
ment, their total want of pride, and their 
detestation of hypocrisy, are so prover- 
bially notorious, as to place them far, far 
above either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the he uour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken 
to the landlord of the King's Arms inn here, 
to have at the next county meeting a large 
ewe-milk cheese table, for the benefit of the 
Oumfries-shire Wlii<;s. to enable them to 



digest the Duke of Queeusberry's late politt 
cal conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity 
of a private hand to Edinburgh, as [)erhap» 
you would not digest double postage. 

R. B. 



NO. CXXXVIII. 



VO MR. GEORGE lOCKHART. 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 

Mauchline, July 18?/t, 1788. 

]\Iy Dear Sir — I am just going for 
Nithsdale, else I would certainly have 
transcribed some of my rhyming things for 
you. The Miss Baillies I have seen in 
Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy 
works. Lord God Almighty ! Who wouk" 
not praise thee for these thy gifts in thy 
goodness to the sons of men ! " It needed 
not your fine taste to admire them. I 
declare, one day I had the honour of dining 
at Mr. Baillie's, 1 was almost in the pre- 
dicament of the cliUdren of Israel, when 
they could not look ou Moses' face for the 
glory that shone in it when he descended 
from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the 
Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when 
I was in the Highlands. When you return 
to Scotland, let me know, and I will send 
such of my pieces as please myself b>;st. 
I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Burden. I am- 
in truth, but at present, in haste, yours, 
E. B. 



NO. CXXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, Aufjust 2nd, 1738. 

Honoured Madam — Your kind letter 
welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire. I 
am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the 
quantum of your luckpenny ; but, vexed and 
hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very 
heartily at the noble lord's apology for the 
missed napkin. 

I w^ould write you from Nithsdale, and 
give you ray direction there, but 1 have 
scarce an opportunity of calling at a post — ■ 
office once in a fortnight. I am six milei 
from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, 
and, as *et, have little acquaintan-je in the 



TO MKS. DUNLOP. 



32» 



neighbourhood. Bt sides, T am now very 
:>nsy oil my farm, building a dwelling-house ; 
as at present I am almost an evangelical man 
ill Nithsdale, for I have scarce "where to lay 
my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brouL;ht tears in my eyes. "The lieart 
kiiijueth its own sorrows, and a stranger 
iiiteriueddleth not therewith." The reposi- 
tory of these " sorrows of the heart " is a 
kind of suHclhm sanctorum : and 'tis only a 
clioson friend, and that, too, at particular, 
sacred times, who dares enter into them : — • 

Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
That nature tinest strung. 

You will excuse this quotation for the 
sake of the author. Instead of entering on 
this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a 
few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging 
to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbour- 
hood, They are almost the only favours the 
muses have conferred on me in that countrj'. 
* * * 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
following were the production of yesterday, 
as I jogged through the wild hills of New 
Cimiiiocic. I intend inserting them, or 
something like them, in an epistle I am 
going to write to the gentleman on wliose 
friendship my Excise hopes depend, Mr. 
Graham of Fintry, one of the worthiest and 
most accomplished gentlemen, not only of 
this country, but, I will dare to say it, of 
this age. The following are just the first 
crude thoughts " uuhousel'd, unauointed, 
unanealed : " — 

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train, — 
M^eak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were blest, did bliss on them 

depend. — 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 

friend ! " 
The little fate bestows they share as soon. 
Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feels by reason and who gives by rule. 
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor ivill do wait upon I should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns 

they're good? 

Ye wise outs, hence ! ye hurt the social eye, — 
God's image rud»;ly etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come . » * » ♦ 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished 
at. what jou tell me of Anthony's writing 



me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you 
Tex me mucli by telling me that he is unfor- 
tunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days 
from this date. I have just room for an old 
Roman farewell. R. B. 



NO. CXIi. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANKa. 

Ellisland, August, 1788. 

T HAVE not room, my dear friend, to 
answer all the particulars of your last kind 
letter. J shall be in Edinburgh on some 
business very soon ; and as I shall be two 
days, or perhaps three in town, we shall 
discuss matters vivci voce. My knee, I 
believe, will never be entirely well , and aw 
unlucky fall this winter has made it still 
worse. I well remeniljer the circumstance 
you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion 
of Mr. Nicol; but as the first gentleman 
owes me still about fifty pounds, I dare not 
meddle in the ati'air. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read 
such accounts of the consequence of your 
quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted 

hell-commissioned scoundrel. A . If, 

notwithstandnig your unprecedented in- 
dustry in public, and your irreproachable 
conduct in private life, he still has you so 
much in his power, what ruin may he not 
bring on some others I could name ? 

Many and happy returns of season to 
you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, 
and the lovely little pledge of your happy 
union. May the great Author of life, and 
of every enjoyment that can render life 
dflightful, make her that comfortable 
blessing to you both, which you so ardently 
wish for, and which, allow me to say, you 
so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing 
verses, and let me have your blots. Ache«. 
R. B. 



MO. CLXI. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 
Mauchline, August \Oth, 1738. 

My much Honoured Friend— Yourt 
of the 24th June is before me. I found it, 
as well as another valued friend — my wife- 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met 
both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not ^it 



S30 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



down to answer every paragraph of yours, by 
echoing every sentiment, like the faithful 
Commons of Great Britain in Parliament 
assembled, answering a speech from the best 
of kings ! I express myself in the fulness 
of my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of 
neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but 
not from your very odd reason, that I do not 
read your letters. All your epistles for sev- 
eral months have cost me nothing, except a 
•welling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt 
sentiment of veneration. 

When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found 
herself "as women wish to be who- love their 
lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, 
we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
parents got the hint ; and not only forbade 
me her company and their house, but, on my 
rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant 
to put me in jad, till I should tind security 
in iny about-to-be paternal relation. You 
know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my 
Mutant return to Mauchline, I was made 
very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
consequences began to betray her ; and as 1 
was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- 
burgh, she was turned, literally turned, out 
of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter 
her till my return, when our marriage was 
declared. Her happiness or misery were m 
my hands, and who could trifle with such a 
deposit ? 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable com- 
panion for my journey of life; but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual 
instance. 

Circumstanced as I ara, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished 
my favourite authors, &c., without probably 
entailing on me, at the same time, t-xpensive 
living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish aft'ec- 
tation, with all the other blessed boarding- 
school acquirements, which (pardonnez moi, 
Madame) are sometimes to be found among 
females of tlie upper ranks, but almost uni- 
versally pervade the misses of the would-be 
gentry. 

I like your way in your churchyard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the sponta- 
neous result of accidental oituations, either 
respecting health, place or company, have 
often a strength, and always an originality, 
that would in vain be looked for in fancied 
circumstances and studied paragraphs. For 
me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, 
in progression by me, to send you when tlie 
•heet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 
1 must tell y.ju, my reason for writing to you 
Ot pa{!er of this kind is my pruriency of wri- 



ting to you at large. .\ page of post is on 
such a dis-social, iiariow-minded scale, that 
that 1 cannot abide it ; and double letters, 
at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, 
are a monstrous tax in a close correspond- 
eooe. K. B. 



KO. CXLII, 

TO THE SAME. 
Ellisland, August I6lh, 1788. 

1 AM in a *ine disposition, my honourtii 
friend, to send you an elegiac epistle, and 
want only genii's to make it quite Shtusto- 
nian : — 

Why droops my heart with fancied woes 

forlorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky P 

My increasing cares Li this, as yet, strange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark 
vista of futurity — consciousness of my owu 
inability for the struggle of the world — my 
broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and 
chddren ; — I could indulge these reflections, 
till my humour shoidd ferment into the most 
acid chagrin, that would corrode the verf 
thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I 
have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul 1 always find tliat the most 
sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner, 
for the first time. My reception was quite 
to my mind : from the lady of the house 
quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a 
couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated 
one or two to the admiration of all present. 
My suff"rage as a professional luan was ex- 
pected : it for once went agonising over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my 
adored household gods, independence of spi- 
rit, and integrity of soi d ! In the course of cau- 
versation " Johnson's Musical Museum," a 
collection of Scottish songs with the iimsic, 
was talked of We got a song on the harp- 
sichord, beginning. 

Raving winds around her blowing. 

The air was much admired : the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words. 
" iline. Madam — they are indeed my very 
best verses : " she took not the smallest 
notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb 
says well, " King's cafl' is better than iihet 
folks' corn." I was going to mike a N«»- 



TO MR. BEUGO. 



831 



TcBtanient quotation about "castin,!^ pe*rls," 
but that would be too virulent, for the lady 
is actually a wouian of sense and taste. 

After all that has been said on the other 
side of the question, man is by no means a 
happy creature. I do not speak of the 
selected few, favoured by partial heaven, 
whose souls are tuned to gladness amid 
riches, and honours, and prudence and wis- 
dom. I speak of the neglected many, whose 
iier\ es, whose sinews, whose days, are sold 
to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I 
would transcribe for you a stanza of an old 
Scottish ballad, called "The Lifs and Age of 
Man ;" beginning thus : — 

Twas in the sixteenth hundredth year 

Of God and fifty-three 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear. 

As writings testifie. 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; 
the good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died, during which time his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of " The Life and Age of Man." 

It is this w ay of thinking ; it is these 
melancholy truths, that make religion so 
precious to the poor, miserable children of 
men. If it is a mere phantom, existing only 
in the heated imagination of enthusiasm, 

Wliat truth on earth so precious as the lie ? 

My idle reasonings sometimes makes me a 
httle sceptical, but the necessities of my 
heart always give the cold philosophisings 
the lie. AVho looks for the heart weaned 
from earth ; tlie soul affianced to her God ; 
the correspondence fixed with heaven ; the 
pious sU])plicafion and devout thanksgiving, 
constant as the vicissitvides of even and 
morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the 
court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? 
No : to find them in their precious im- 
portance and divine etticacy, we must search 
among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
ment, afiliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now 
more than pleased with the length of my 
letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of 
next week : and it quickens my pace to 
think that there will be a letter from you 
waitijig me there. I must be here agaiu 
»ery soon for my harvest. R. B. 



I NO. CXLIII. 

TO MR. BEUGO 

ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, Sept. 9th, 1788. 
My Dear Sir — There is not in Edia« 
burgh above the number of the graces whose 
letters would have given me so much 
pleasure as yours of the 3rd instant, which 
only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on my farm, busy with my 
harvest ; but for all that most pleasurable 
part of life called social communication, 
I am here at tlie very elbow of existence. 
The only things that are to be found m this 
country, in any degree of perfection, are 
stupidity and canting. Prose, they only 
know in graces, prayers, &c., and the value 
of these they estimate, as they do their 
plaiding webs — by the ell! As for the 
muses, they have as much an idea of a 
rhinocei'os as of a pofct. For my old capri- 
cious but good-natured hussy of a muse : — 
By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on. 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow trees upon. 
I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my "darling Jean;" and then I, at 
lucid intervals, throw ray horny fist across 
my be-cobwebbed lyre, much in the same 
manner as an old wife throws her hand 
across the spokes of her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the "Fortunate Shep- 
herdess " as soon as I return to Ayrshire, 
for there I keep it with other precious 
treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, 
as I would not for any thing it should be 
mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you 
from any benevolence, or other grave Chris 
tian virtue ; 'tis purely a selfish gratification 
of my own feelings whenever I think of you. 
If your better functions would give you 
leisure to write me, I should be extremely 
happy ; that is to say, if you neither keep 
nor look for a regular correspondence. I 
hate the idea of being obliged to write a 
letter. I sometimes write a friend twice 
a-week, at other times once a-quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy 
in making the author you mention place a 
map of Iceland instead of his portrait before 
his works : 'twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me ons thing? 
— whenever you finish any head, I should 
like to have a proof copy of it. I might tell 
you a long story about your fine genius ; 
but, as what every body knows cannot hava 
escaped you, I sliall not say one syllabi* 
about it. R. B 







332 



CORRESPONDEXCE OF BUKNS 



NO. CXLIV. 

rO MISS CHALMERS, EDINBURGH. 
jillisland, near Dumfries, Sept. \iStli, 1788. 

Where are you? and how are you? and 
is Laily IMaekenzie recovering her health ? 
for 1 have had but one sohtary letter from 
yo'i. I will not think you have forgot me. 
Madam ; and, for my part — 

Tilicn thee, Jerusalem, I forfre'c. 
Skill part from my right hand ! 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea." I do not make my 
progress among mankind as a bowl does 
among its fellows — rolling through the 
crowd without bearing away any mark or 
impression, except where they hit in hostile 
collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting your- 
selves much a Veyard de nioi, I sit down to 
beg the continuation of your goodness. I 
can truly say that, all the exterior of life 
apart, I never saw two whose esteem flattered 
the noble feelings of my soul — I will not 
say more, but so much, as Lady JLiekenzie 
and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you 
— hearts the best, minds the noblest of 
human kind — unfortunate even in the 
shades of life — when I think I have met 
with you, and have lived more of real life 
with you in eight days than I can do with 
almost any body I meet with in eight years 
— when I think on the improbability of 
meeting you in this world again — I could 
uit down and cry like a child ! If ever you 
honoured me with a place in your esteem, I 
trn-t I can now plead more desert. I am 
secure against that crushing grip of iron 
poverty, which, alas I is less or more fatal 
to the native worth and purity of, I fear, 
the noblest souls ; and a late important step 
in my life hai kindly taken me out of the 
way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, 
however overlooked in fashionable licence, 
or varnished in fashionable phrase, are 
indeed bat lighter aud deeper shades of 

VILLANY. 

Shoitly after my last return to Ayrshire, 
y married "my Jean." This was not in 
consequence of the attachment of romance, 
perhaps ; but I had a long aud much loved 
fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my 
del;erraination, and I durst not trifle with so 
important a deposit. Nor have I any 
cause to repent it. If I have not got polite 
tattle, modish manners, and fashionable 



dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with 
the multiform curse of boarding-schoo! 
affectation . and I have got the handsomest 
figt'^e, the sweetest temper, the soundest 
constitution, and the kindest heart, in the 
county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as 
her creed, that I am le 2^lus bel esjiirU, et 
le plus honnete liomme in the miiverse ; 
although she scarcely ever in her lite, except 
the Scriptures of the Old and New Testa- 
ment, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
spent five minutes together on uitlier pruse 
or verse. I must except also from i.us last 
a certain late publication of Scots poems, 
which she has perused very devoutly ; and 
all the ballads in the country, as she haa 
(oh, the partial lover ! you will cry) the 
finest "wood note wild" I ever heard. I 
am the more particular in this lady'a 
character, as I know she will henceforth 
have the honour of a share in your best 
wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am 
building my house ; for this hovel that I 
shelter in, while occasionally here, is per- 
vious to every blast that blows, and every 
shower that falls ; aud I am only preserved 
from being chilled to death by being 
suffocated with smoke. I do not find my 
farm that pennyworth I was taught to ex- 
pect, but I believe, in time, it may be a 
saving bargain. You will be pleased to 
hear that 1 have laid aside idle eclat, aud 
bind every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation 
of at any time going down, in a losing 
bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken 
my Excise instructions, aud have my com- 
mission in my pocket for any emergency of 
fortune. If I could set all before my view, 
whatever disrespect you, in common with 
the world, have for this business, I know 
you would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, 
for this egotistic detail ; I know you and 
your sister will be interested in every cir- 
cumstance of it. What signify the silly, 
idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trum- 
pery of greatness ! When fellow-partuk-is 
of the same nature fear the same God, have 
the same benevolence of heart, the same 
nobleness of soul, the same detestation at 
every thing dishonest, and the same scorn 
at every thing unworthy — if they are not 
in the dependence of absolute beggary, in 
the name of common sense, they are not 
EauALS? And if the bias, the instinctive 
bias of their souls rim the same way, why 
may they not be friends ? 

When I have an opportunity of sending 
you this. Heaven only knows Shensti^ua 



TO MES. DUNLOP. 



331 



cftvs, "When one is confined idle within 
doors by bad weather, the best antidote 
ftijainst ennui is to read the letters of, or to 
write to, one's friends ; " in that case then, 
if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl 
;ou half a quire. 

I very lately — to wit, since harvest began 
■ — wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the 
manner, of Pojje's Moral Epistles. It is only 
a short essay, just to try the strength of my 
Muse's pinion in that way. I will send you 
a copy of it, when once I have heard from 
you. I have likewise been laying the 
foundation of some pretty large poetic 
works : how the superstructure will come 
on, I leave to that great maker and marrer 
of projects — time. Joinison's collection of 
Scots songs is going on in the third volume; 
and, of consequence, finds me a consumption 
for a great deal of idle metre. One of the 
most tolerable things I have done in that 
way, is two stanzas I made to an air a 
musical gentleman of my acquaintance com- 
posed for the aniversary of his wedding-day. 
which happens on the 7th of November. 
Take it as follows : — 

" The day returns — my bosom burns — 
The blissful day we twa did meet," &c. 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If 
I should be seized with a scribbling fit, before 
this goes away, I shall make it ajiother 
letter ; and then you may allow your 
patience a week's respite between the two. 
I have not room for more than the old, kind, 
hearty farewell ! 



To make some amends, mes cTiires Mes- 
dames, for dragging you on to this second 
sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresome- 
ness of my unstudied and uncorrectible 
prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late 
poetic bagatelles ; though I have, these 
eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks 
of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my 
neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a 
tey at pleasure, I wrote as follows, suppos- 
uig myself the sequestered, venerable in- 
habitant of the lonely mansion. 

MNES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HER- 
MITAGE. 

• Thou whom chance mav hither lead," &c. 
R. B. 



TO MR. IMORRISON, MAUCIILINE. (78) 

Ellisland, September 22nd, 1783. 

My Dear Sir — Necessity obliges me to 
go into my new house even before it be 
plastered. I will inhabit the one end until 
the other is finished. About three weeks 
more, I think, will at farthest be my time, 
beyond which I cannot stay in this present 
house. If ever you wish to deserve the 
blessing of him that was ready to perisli ; 
if ever you were in a situation that a little 
kindness would have rescued yon from 
many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest iu 
future states of untried being — get these 
matters of mine ready. My servant will be 
out in the beginning of next week for tlie 
clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morrison. 
I am, after all my tribulation, dear Sir, 
yours, R. B. 



NO. CLXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, OP DUNLOP. 
MauchUne, Sept. 27th, 1783. 

I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more 
than once ; but scarcely ever with more plea- 
sure than when I received yours of the 1 2th 
instant. To make myself understood ; I had 
wrote to Jlr. Graham, enclosing my poem 
addressed to him, and the same post which 
favoured me with yours brought me an an- 
swer from him. It was dated the very day 
he had received mine ; and I am quite at a 
loss to say whether it was most polite or 
kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker- toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balaiiciilg with 
unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an 
author's merits ; they are the judicious ob- 
servations of animated friendship, selecting 
the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived 
from Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. 
I was on horseback this morning by three 
o'clock ; for between my wife and my farm 
is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on ia 
the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit aa 
follows : 

" Mrs. Fergussonof Craigdarroch's lamen- 
tation for the death of her son — an uncom- 
monly promising youth of eighteen or niu&' 
teen years of age. 

Fate gave the word — the arrow sjied, 

And pierced my darling's heart," .Scr- 



834 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



You will not send me your poetic rambles, 
but, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I 
am sure your impromptus <;ive me double 
pleasure ; what falls from your pen can 
neither be uncntertaiuing in itself, nor in- 
different to me. 

The one fault you found is just, but I 
cannot please myself in an emendation. 

What a life of solicitude is tiie life of a 
parent ! You interested me much in your 
young couple. 

I would not take my folio paper for this 
epistle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded 
with my dirty long journey that I was 
afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness 
with any thing larger than a quarto, and so 
I must leave out another rhyme of this morn- 
ing's manufacture. 

I will pay the sapieutipotent George most 
cheerfully to bear from you ere I leave 
Ayrskirc B. B. 



NO. CLXVU. 

TO MR. PETER HILL 

Mauchline, October \st, 1733. 

I HAVE been here in this country about 
three days, and all that time my chief read- 
ing has been the "Address to Loclilomond" 
you were so obliging as to send to me. 
Were I impanuelled one of the author's 
jury, to determine his criminality respecting 
the sin of poesy, my verdict should be 
" Guilty ! A poet of nature's making !" It is 
an excellent method for improvement, and 
what I believe every poet does, to place some 
favourite classic author in his own walks of 
Btudy and composition, before him as a 
model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a 
glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. 
Will my brother-poet forgive me, If I ven- 
ture to hint that his imitation of that im- 
mortal bard is in two or three places rather 
tnore servile than such a geuius as his 
required : — e. g. 

To soothe the maddening passions all to 

peace. Address. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. 

Thomson. 

I think the " Address " is in simplicity, 
harmony, and elegance of versification, fully 
C(|ual to the "Seasons." Like Thomson, too, 
he has looked into nature for himself: you 
meet with no copied description. One par- 
ticular tritwism I nude at lirst reading: iu 



no one instance has he said too much. Hj 
never flags in his progress, but, Hke a true 
poet of Nature's making, kindles in his 
course. His beginning is simple and modest, 
as if distrustful of the strength of Ids pinion ; 
only I do not altogether like — 

— Troth, 

The soul of every song that's nobly great. 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that ia 
nobly great. Perhaps 1 am wrong : this 
may be but a prose criticism. Is not the 
phrase in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too 
much vulgarised by every-day language for 
so sublime a poem ? 

Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song, 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
of a comparison with other lakes is at once 
harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

Winding margin of an hundred miles. 

The perspective that follows mountains 
bine — the imprisoned billows beating in vain 
— the wooded isles — the digression on the 
yew-tree — " Benlomond's lofty, cloud-enve- 
lop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thunder- 
storm is a subject which has often been tried, 
yet our poet in his grand picture has inter- 
jected a circumstance, so far as I know, 
entirely original : — 

The gloom 

Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 
fire. 

In his preface to the storm, "the glens 
how dark between," is noble highland land- 
scape ! The "rain ploughing the red mould," 
too, is beautifully fancied. " Benlomond's 
lofty, pathless, top," is a good expression ; 
and the surromiding view from it is truly 
great : the 

■ silver mist. 



Beneath the beaming sun, 

is well described ; and here he has contrived 
to enliven his poem with a little of that 
passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the 
modern muses altogether. I know not how 
far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, 
but the swain's wish to carry " some fauit 
idea of the vision bright," to entertain her 
" partial listening ear," is a pretty thought. 
But, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- 
sages iu the whole poem are the fowls 
crowding, in wintry fiosts, to Lochlomond's 
"hospitable flood;" their wheeling round, 
their lighting, mijdug diving, &c. : aitd the 



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TO THE EDITOR OF THE " COURANT." 



3Sf 



tlorioua description of the sportsman. This 
liist is equal to any thing in the " Seasons." 
I'he idea of " the floating tribes distant seen, 
far gUstening to the moon," provoking his 
eye as he is obhged to leave them, is a noble 
ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," 
the "hideous roar" of "the white cascades," 
are all in the same style. 

1 forget that while I am thus holding forth 
with the heedless w arrath of an enthusiast, 
I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I 
must, however, mention that the last verse 
of tlie sixteenth page is one of the most 
elegant compliments I have ever seen, I 
must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph 
beginning " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare 
not go into the particular beauties of the last 
two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, 
and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began : — 
I should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
alfordfd me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books, "Letters on the Religion I 
essential to Man," a book you sent me before; I 
and " The World Uinnasked, or the Philoso- 
pher the greatest Cheat." Send me them 
by the first opportunity. The bible you sent 
me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had been 
it two volumes £L B. 



IfO. CXLVIIl. 

TO THE EDITOR OF "EDINBURGH 
EVENING COURANT." 

Novemher 8th, 1788. 

Sir — Notwithstanding the opprobrious 
epithets with which some of our philosophers 
and gloomy sectarians have branded our 
nature — the principle of universal selfishness, 
the proneness to all evil, they have given us 
— still, the detestation in which inhumanity 
to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, 

are held by all mankind, shows that they are I mical to the happiness of a nation and the 
not natives of the human heart. Even the rights of subjects. 

unhappy partner of our kind who is undone i In this contest between prince and peo- 
— the bitter j;onsequence of his follies or his ' pie, the consequence of that lij-lit of science 



acknowledgment to the Author of all Goo(i 
for the consequent blessings '^f the glorious 
Revolution. To that auspicious event we 
owe no less than our liberties, civil and reli- 
gious ; to it we are likewise indebted for the 
present royal family, the ruling features of 
whose administration iiave ever been mild- 
ness to the subject, and tenderness of las 
rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, 
it could not be any silly political prejudice 
which made my heart revolt at the harsh, 
abusive manner in which the reverend gen- 
tleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and 
which, I am afraid, was too much the lan- 
guage of the day. We may rejoice sufiiciently 
in our deliverance from past evils, without 
cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose 
misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their 
crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and 
we may bless God for all his goodness to us 
as a nation, without at the same time cursing 
a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
most of us would have done, had we been in 
their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of 
Stuart" may be said with propriety and 
justice, when compared with the present 
royal family, and the sentiments of our days; 
but is there no allowance to be made for the 
manners of the times? Were the royal 
contemporaries of the Stuarts more attentive 
to their subjects' rights ? jMight not the 
epithets of " bloody and tyrannical " be, 
with at least equal justice, applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to 
be this : — At that period, the science of 
government, the knowledge of the true re- 
lation between king and subject, was, like 
other sciences and other knowledge, just in 
its infancy, emerging from dark ages of igno 
ranee and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries 
enjoying ; but these prerogatives were ini- 



trinies — who but sympathises with the 
miseries of this ruined profligate brother? 
We forget the injuries, and feel for the 
man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish 
church, most cordially to join in grateful 

80 



which had lately dawned over Europe, the 
monarch of France, for example, was victo- 
rious over the struggling liberties of his 
people : with us, luckily, the monarch failed, 
and his unwarrantable pretensions fell a 
sacrifice to our rights and happiness. 



336 



CORRESfONDENGE OF BURNS. 



Whether it was owing to the wisdom of 
leading individuals, or to the josthng of par- 
ties, I cannot pretend to determine; but, 
lilvewise, happdy for us, the kingly power was 
shifted into another branch of the family, 
who, as they owed the throne solely to the 
call of a free people, could claim nothing 
inconsistent with the covenanted terms 
which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. Thai 
they failed, 1 bless God, but cannot join m 
the ridicule against them. Who does not ' 
know that the abilities or defects of leaders 
and coramaiulers are often hidden until put 
to the touchstone of exigency ; and that 
there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence 
in particular accidents and conjunctures of 
circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or 
brand us as madmen, just as they are for or 
against us ? 

Jlan, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, 
inconsistent being : who would believe. Sir, 
than in this our Augustan age of liberality 
and refinement, while we seem so justly sen- 
sible and jealous of our rights and liberties, 
and animated with such indignation against 
the very memory of those who would have 
subverted them — that a certain people under 
our national protection should complain, not 
against our monarch and a few favourite 
advisers, but against our whole legislative 
body, for similar oppression, and almost in 
the very same terms, as our forefathers did 
of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I can- 
not, enter into the merits of the case , but I 
dare say the American Congress, in 177G, 
will be allowed to be as able and as enlight- 
ened as the English Convention was in 
16(38 ; and that their posterity will celebrate 
the centenary of their deliverance from us, 
as duly and oincerely as we do ours from the 
onpressive measures of the wrong-headed 
House of Stuart. 

To conclude. Sir ; let every man who has 
a tear for the many miseries incident to 
humanity, feel for a family illustrious as any 
in Europe, and unfortu nate beyond historic 
precedent ; and let every Briton (and par 
ticularly every Scotsman), who ever looked 
with reverential pity on the dotage of a 
pnrent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of 
tiui kiues of his forefathers. 



NO. CXLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

MauchUne, November \3tk, 1788. 

Madam — I had the very great pleasure 
of dining at Dunlop yesterday. !Men ara 
said to flatter women because they are weak : 
— if it be so, poets must be weaker still ; 
for Misses K. and K., and Miss G. M'K., 
with their flattering attentions and artful 
compliments, absolutely turned my head. I 
own they did not lard me over as many a 
poet does his patron, but they so intoxicated 
me with their sly insinuations and dehcate 
inuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
been for a lucky recollection how much 
additional weight and lustre your good opi- 
nion and friendship must give me" in that 
circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as 
a person of no small consequence. I dare 
not say one word how much I was charmed 
with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
manner, and acute remark, lest 1 should be 
thought to balance my orientalisms of ap- 
plause over-against the finest quey (79) in 
Ayrshire which he made me a present of to 
help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was 
on hallow-day, I am determined annually 
as that day returns, to decorate her horns 
with an ode of gratitude to the family 
of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at 
Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency to 
dedicate a day, or perhai)s two, to you and 
friendship, under the guarantee of the major's 
hospitality. There will soon be threescore 
and ten miles of permanent distance between 
us ; and now that your friendship and 
friendly correspondence are entwisted with 
the heart-strings of my (BJoyment, of life, I 
must indulge myself in a happy day of " The 
feast of reason and the flow of soul." 

K B. 



NO. CL. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 
ENGRAVER. 

MauchUne, November I5th, 1788. 

My Dear Sir— I have sent you twc 
more songs. If you have got any tunes, oi 
any thing to correct, please send then bj 
return of the carrier. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



3fJ7 



I can easily see, my dear frienJ, that you 
will probably have four volumes. Perhaps 
jrou may not find your account lucratively 
in this business ? but you are a patriot for 
the music of your country, and I am certain 
posterity will look on themselves as highly 
indebted to your public spirit. Be not 
in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your 
name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your 
third volume. I see every day new musical 
publications advertised ; but «liat are thty ? 
Gaudy, painted butterflies of a day, and then 
vanish for ever : but your work will outlive 
the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and 
defy the teeth of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads 
you a v\ ild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? 
Let me know a few of her qualities, such as 
whether she be rather black or fair, ;ilump 
or thin, short or tall, &c. ; and choose your 
air, and I shall task my muse to cclebvate 
her. K B. 



HO. CLI. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 
Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. 

Reverend and Dear Sir — As I hear 
nothing of your motions, but that you are, 
or were, out of town, I do not know where 
this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of matrimony, in June; but 
either it haa not found you, or, what I dread 
more, it found you or ^Nlrs. Blacklock in too 
precarious a state of health and spirits to 
take notice of an idle ]Kicket. 

I have done many little things for John- 
son, since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; 
and I have finished one piece in the way 
of Pope's " Jloral Epistles;" but, from 
your silence, I have everything to fear, 
so I have only sent you two melancholy 
things, which I tremble lest they should 
too well suit the tone of your present 
feelings. 

lu a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, 
to Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at 
this place ; after trtat period, it will be at 
EUislaud, near Dumfries. It would ex- 
tremely oblige me were it but a half a line, 
to let me know how you are. Can I be 
inJitferent to the fate of a man to whom I 
owe so much — a man wham I not only 
esteem, but vennate ? 



J\Iy warmest good wishes and most 
respectful compliments to Mrs. Blackliicl, 
and Miss Johnston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling yoii thai 
I am more and more pleased with the step I 
took respecting "my Jean." Two things, from 
my happy experience, I set down as apo- 
plithegms in life. A wife's head is immaterial, 
compared with her heart; and — "Vu-tue's 
(for wisdom what poet pretends to it ?) 
ways are ways of pleasantness, and aU 
her paths are peace." Adieu ! 

R. B. 



NO. CLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Becemher 17 th, 1788. 

My Dear Honoured Friend — Yours, 
dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, 
makes me very unhappy. " Almost bhnij 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of 
a much-loved and honoured friend; they 
carry misery in the sound. Goodness on 
your part, and gratitude on mine, began a 
tie which has gradually entwisted itself 
among the dearest chords of my bosom, and 
I tremble at the omens of your late and 
present ailing habit and shattered health. 
You miscalculate matters widely, when you 
forbid my waiting on you, lest it should 
hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale 
of farming is exceedingly more simple and 
easy than what you have lately seen at 
Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, 
the heart of the man and the fancy of the 
poet are the two grand considerations for 
w hich 1 live : if miry ridges and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, I had better 
been a rook or a magpie at once, and thon 
I should not have been plagued with any 
ideas superior to breaking of clods and 
picking up grubs ; not to mention barn- 
door cocks or mallards, creatures with 
which I could ahnnst exchange lives at any 
time. If you coutin le so deaf, I am afraid 
a visit will be no i;ieat pleasure to eith-^r ol 
us ; but if I hear you are got so well again 
as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, Madam, for I will make my threat- 
enings good. I am to be at the New-year- 
day fair of Ayr : and, by all tliat is 
sacred in the world, friend, I will come and 
see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your own schoolfellow and friend, was 
trily interesting. Out upon the ways i^ 



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338 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



the world! Tliey spoil these "social off- 
fprings of tlic heart." Two veterans of the 
" ine.'i of the world " would have met 
witii little more heart-workings than two 
o.'d hacks worn out on the road. Apro- 
pos, is not the Scotch phrase. " auld lang 
syne," exceedingly expressive? There is an 
old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through my soul. You know I am an 
enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall 
give you the verses on the other sheet, 
as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the 
postage. 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? &c. 

Light be the turf on the breast of the 
Heaven-inspired poet who composed this 
glorious fragment ! There is more of the 
hre of native genius in it than in half a 
dozen of modern English Bacchanalians ! 
Now I am on my hobby-horse, 1 cannot 
help inserting two other old stanzas, which 
please me mightily : 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, &c. 
K.B. 



IfO. CLIII. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

December, 1788. 

Madam — ^I understand ray very worthy 
aeighbonr, Mr. Riddel, hau informed you 
that I have made you the subject of some 
verses. There is something so provoking in 
the idea of being the burden of a ballad, that 
I do not think Job or Moses, though such 
patterns of patience and meekness, could 
have resisted the curiosity to know what that 
ballad was ; so my worthy friend has done 
me a mischief, which I dare say he never 
intended, and reduced me to the unfortunate 
alternative of leaving your curiosity uugra- 
titied, or else disgusting you with foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a ran- 
dom moment, and never meant to have met 
your ear. I have heard or read somewhere 
of a gentleman who had some genius, much 
eccentricily, and very cou-siderable dexterity 
^*ith iiis pencil. In the accidental group of 
life into which one is thrown, wherever this 
gentleman met with a character in a more 
than ordinary degree congenial to his b^art, 
ue used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, 
he said, as a nola bene, to point out the 
agreeable recollectioa to his memory. What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, my muse 
it to me : and the verses I do myself the 



honour to send you are a memento exact'j of 
the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste, 
but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt.. 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride o* 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart," 1 positively feel what 
an orthodox Protestant would call a species 
of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like in- 
spiration ; and I can no more desist rhyming 
on the impulse, than an /Eolian harp can 
refuse its tones to the streaming air. A 
distich or two would be the consequence, 
though the object which hit my fancy were 
grey-bearded age; but where my theme is 
youth and beauty, a young lady whose per- 
sonal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally 
strikingand unaffected— by Heavens! though 
I had hved threescore years a married man, 
and threescore years before I was a married 
man, my imagination would hallow the very 
idea : and 1 am truly sorry that the enclosed 
stanzas have done such poor justice to such 
a subject. B, B. 



IfO. CUT. 



TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. 

December 22nd, 1788. 

I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky 
for the first time, and I assure you it does 
you great credit. It will bear five waters, 
strong, or six, ordinary toddy. The whisky 
of this country is a most rascally liquor; 
and, by consequence, oidy drunk by the 
most rascally part of the inhabitants. I am 
persuaded, if you once get a footing here, 
you might do a great deal of business, in the 
way of consumpt ; and should you commence 
distiller again, this is the native barley 
country. I am ignorant if, in your present 
way of dealing, you would think it worth 
your while to extend your business so tar 
as this country side. I write you this ou 
the account of an accident, which I must 
take the merit of having partly designed to. 
A neighbour of mine, a John Curne, miller 
in Carse-mill — a man who is, in a word, a 
"very" good man, even for a £500 bargaii* 
— he and his wife were in my house the 
time I broke open the cask. They keep a 
country public-house and sell a great deal ot 
foreign spirits, but all along thought thai 
whisky would have degraded this house. 
They were perfectly astc aished at my whisky, 
both for itf taste and strength; and, l>| 



TO MES. DTJNLOP. 



33» 



?heir desse, 1 write you to know if you could 
supply them with liquor of an equal quality, 
and what price. Please write me by first 
post, and direct to me at Ellislaud, near 
Dumfries. If you could take a jaiuit this 
way yourself, I have a spare s{)oon, knife and 
fork, very much at your service. My com- 
pliments to Mrs. Teunant, and all the good 
folks iu Glenconner and Barquharrie. 

B.B. 



MO. CLV. 



TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 
1789. 

Rev. Sir — I do not recollect that I have 
ever felt a severer pang of shame, than on 
looking at the date of your obliging letter 
which accompanied Mr. Myhie's poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr. 
Mylne has done me, greatly enhanced iu its 
value by the endearing, though melancholy 
circumstance of its being the last production 
of his rause, deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it wof Id be an 
improper step. My success, perhaps as 
much accidental as merited, has brought an 
inundation of nonsense under the name of 
Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scot- 
tish poems have so dunned, and daily do 
dun the public, that the very name is in 
danger of contempt. For these reasons, if 
publishing any of Mr. Myhie's poems in a 
Magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my 
opinion, it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a mau 
of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any 
profits whatever; and Mr. Myhie's relations 
»re most justly entitled to that honest 
harvest which fate has denied himself to 
/eap. But let the friends of Mr. Myhie's 
fame (among whom I crave the honour of 
ranking myself) always keep in eje his 
respectability as a man and as a poet, and 
take no measure that, before the world 
knows anything about him, would risk his 
name and character being classed with the 
fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. Myhie's poems, is this : — I mil publish, 
«n t»vo or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his Euglish poems which 
thould, by private judges, be thought the 
raost excellent, and mention it, at the same 



time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
farmer of respectable character, lately de- 
ceased, whose poems his friends hai it in 
idea to publish soon by subscription, for the 
sake of his numerous family; not in pity to 
that family, but in justice to what his friends 
think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and 
to secure, in the most effectual manner, to 
those tender connexions, whose right it is, 
the pecuniary reward of those merits. 

R. B. (SO) 



NO. CLVI. 



30* 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, Neiu-y ear-day Morning, 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the 
apostle James's description ! — the prayer of 
a ri'jhtcous man availeth much. In that case. 
Madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
blessings : every thing that obstructs or 
disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, 
should be removed, and every pleasure that 
frail humanity can taste, should be yours. 
I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I 
approve of set times and seasons of more 
than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
in on that habituated routine of life and 
thought, which is so apt to reduce our 
existence to a kind of instinct, or even some- 
times, and with some minds, to a state very 
little superior to mere machinery. 

This day; the first Sunday of May; a 
breezy, blue-skied noon some time about the 
beginning, aud a hoary morning and calm 
sunny day about the end, of autumn; these, 
time out of mind, have been with me a kind 
of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator, '• The Vision of Mirza," a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I 
was capable of fixing an idea to a word of 
three syllables: — "On the 5th day of the 
moon, which, according to the custom of my 
forefathers, I always keep holy, after having 
washed myself aud offered up my morning 
devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in medi- 
tation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so 
cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
them, that one should be particularly 
pleased with this thing, or struck with that, 
which, on minds of a different cast, makes 
no extraordinary imj-ir'saion. I have som« 



iiiiiiiiiiiiniii'"i"ninn'iii!iii'ii!iinniiiiiiiiiinn;!i 




840 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



favourite flowers in spring, among which are 
tiie mountain-daisy, tlie harebell, the foxglove, 
the wild-briar rose, the budding birch, and 
the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang 
over with particular dehght. I never heard 
the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
eummer noon, or the wild mixhig cadence of 
a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal 
morning, without feeling an elevation of 
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or 
poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what 
can this be owing ? Are we a piece of 
machinery, which, like the ./Eolian harp, 
passive, takes the impression of the passing 
accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something above us above the trodden clod? 
I own myself partial to such proofs of those 
awful and important realities — a God that 
made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — ai d a world of weal or woe 
beyond death aud the grave. 

R. B. (81). 



NO. CLTII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, Jan. Ath, 1789. 

Sir — As often as I think of writing to 
you, which has been three or four times 
tvery week these six mouths, it gives me 
iomethiug so like the idea of an ordinary- 
sized statue offering at a conversation with 
the Rhodian colossus, that my mind mis- 
gives me, and the atfair always miscarries 
somewhere between purpose and resolve. I 
have at last got some business with you, 
aud business letters are written by the 
style-book. I say my business is with you. 
Sir, for you never h»d any with me, except 
the business that benevolence has in the 
mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride. I kiiow that a very great deal of my 
late eclat was owing to the singularity of 
my situation, and the honest prejudice of 
Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface 
to my first edition, I do look upon myself 
8s having some pretensions from nature to 
the poetic character. I have not a doubt 
but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the 
muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him 
" who forms the secret bias of the soid ; " — 
but I as firmly believe, that excellence in the 
profession is the fruit of industry, labour, 
attention, and pains. At least I am re- 
solved to try ray doctrine by the test of es- 
peneuce. Another apiy2arance f»oin the 



press I put off to a very ^\istant day, r daj 
that may never arrive— -but poesy I ai< de- 
termined to prosecute with all my vigour. 
Nature has given very few, if any, of the 
professions, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for 
until trial it is impossible to know) whetlier 
she has qualified me to shine in any one. 
The worst of it is, by the time one has 
finished a piece, it has been so often viewed 
and reviewed before the mental eye, that 
one loses in a good measure the powers of 
critical discrimination. Here the best 
criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good-nature 
enough, like a prudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise perhaps a little more than 
is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal 
fall into that most deplorable of all poetic 
diseases — heart-breaking despondency of 
himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely 
indebted to your gooduess, ask the ad- 
ditional obligation of your being that friend 
to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, in 
a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 
the epistle addressed to R. G., Esq., or 
Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq., a gentle- 
man of uncommon worth, to whom 1 lie 
under very great obligations. The story of 
the poem, like most of my poems, is con- 
nected with my own story, g-vd to ^"f you 
the one, I must gi?c JCL wmfcthijig oi the 
other. I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's 
ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kejit ma 
hanging about Edinburgh from the 7lh 
August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, 
before he would condescend to give me a 
statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even 
then, but for an angry letter I wrote him, 
which irritated his pride. " I could " not a 
"tale," but a detail," unfold ;" but, what am 
I, that should speak against the Lord's 
anointed Baillie of Edinburgh ? 

I believe, I shall, in whole, £100 copy- 
right included, clear about £400 some little 
odds ; and even part of this depends upon 
what the gentleman has yet to settle with 
me. I give you this information, because 
you did me the honour to interest yourself 
much in my welfare. I give you this in- 
formation, but I give it to yourself only, for 
I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. 
Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am 
sometimes tempted to have of him — God 
forbid 1 shoidd ! A little time will try, for 
in a month I shall go to tcwn to wind up 
the business if possibla 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I 
have married "my Jean," aud taken a farm; 
with the first step I have ever; day mort 




mm. 



cd^ 




TO PROFESSOR DUUA.LD STEWART. 



S4I 



i;nd T.;>re reason to be satisfied; with the 
hst, it is rather the reverse. I have a 
yciunger brother, who supports mj' aged 
mother ; another still younger brother^ and 
tliiee sisters, in a farm. On my last return 
from Edinburgh, it cost me about £180 to 
save them from ruin. Not that I have lost 
60 much — I only interposed between my 
brother and his impending fate by the loan 
of so much. I give myself no airs on this, 
for it was mere selfishness on my part : I 
was conscious that the WTong scale of the 
balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
thr light that throwing a little tihal piety 
and fraternal affection into the scale in my 
favour, might help to smooth matters at the 
grand reckoning. There is still one thing 
would make my circumstances quite easy : 
I have an Excise otficer's commission, and I 
hve in the midst of a country division. My 
request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the 
Commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, 
to procure me that division. If I were very 
sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
great patrons might procure me a treasury 
warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 
Thus, secure of a livelihood, "to thee, 
sweet poetry, delightful maid," I would con- 
secrate my future days. R. B. 



NO. CLVIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT ATNSIIE. 

Ellkland, January 6th, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to 
you, my dear Sir! May you be com- 
paratively happy up to your comparative 
worth among I <e sons of men ; which wish 
would, I am sure, make you one t-i the most 
blest of the human race. 

I do uot know if passing a " writer to the 
signet " be a trial of scientific merit, or a 
mere business of friends and interest. 
However it be, let me quote you my two 
favourite passages, which, though I have re- 
peated them ten thousand times, still they 
rouse my manhood and steal my resolutions 
like inspiration. 

On Reason build resolve. 

That column of true majesty in man. 

Young. 
Hear, Vlfred, liero of the state 
Tliy genius heaven's high will declare; 
Tne triumph of the truly great. 
Is never, never to despair ! 
Is never to despair. — JIasque of Alfred, 



I grant you enter the lists of life to »trug> 
gle for bread, business, notice and distinction, 
in common v.ith hundreds But who art 
they ? Men like yourself, and of that ag 
gregate body ycur compeers, seven-tenths of 
them come short of your advantages, natural 
and accidental ; while two of those that re- 
main, either neglect their parts, as flowers 
blooming in a desert, or mis-spend theii 
strength hke a bull goring a bramble bush. 
R. B. 



NO. CLIX. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

Ellisland, Jan. 20th, 1789. 

Sir — ^The enclosed sealed packet I sent to 
Edinburgh, a few days after I bad the happi- 
ness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you 
were gone for the continent. I have now 
added a few more of my productions, thoss 
for which 1 am indebted to the Nithsdale 
Muses. The piece inscribed to R. G. Esq., 
is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, accompanying a request for his as- 
sistance in a matter to me of very great 
moment. To that gentleman 1 am already 
doubly indebted; for deeds of kindness of 
serious import to my dearest interests, done 
in a manner grateful to the delicate feelmgs 
of sensibFlity. This poem is a species of 
Co ^ •>sition new to me, but I do not intend 
it shall be u.^ last essay of the kind, as you 
will see by the " Poet's Progress." These 
fragments, if my design succeeu, are but a 
small p;iirt of the intended whole. J propose 
it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, 
ripened by years ; of course I do not wish it 
much known. The fragment beginning " A 
little upright, pert, tart," &c., 1 have not 
shown to man living, till I now send it you. 
It forms the postulata, the axioms, the defi- 
nition of a character, which, if it appear at 
all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. 
This particular part I send you merely as a 
sample of my hand at portrait-sketchuig ; 
but, lest idle conjecture should pretend to 
point out the original, please to let it be for 
your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, 
to a gentleman who has treated me with such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness ; 
who has entered into my interests with so 
much zeal, and on whose critical decisions I 
can so fully dejiend ? A poet as I am by 
trade, these decisions are to me of the last 
consequence. My late transient acquant- 
auce among some qT the more rank and tUa 




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Wi 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of greatness, I resij^n with ease ; but to the 
distinguished champions of genius and leani- 
hi;,', I shall ever be ambitious of being known. 
Tiie native genius and accurate discernment 
in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ; the 
justice (iron justice, for he has no bonels of 
compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. 
Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Pro- 
fessor Dalzcl's taste, 1 shall ever revere. 

I shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
month. I have the honour to be. Sir, your 
highly obliged, and very humble servant, 
K. B. 



NO. CLX. 

TO BISHOP GEDDES. (82) 

Ellisland, Feb. 3rd, 1789. 

Venerable Father — As I am con- 
scious that, wherever I am, you do me the 
honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it 
gives me pleasure to inform you, that 1 am 
here at last, stationary in the serious business 
of life, and have now not only the retired 
leiiiure, but the hearty inclination, to attend 
to those great and important questions — 
what I am ; where I am ; and for what I am 
destined. 

In that first concern, the conduct of the 
man, there was ever but one side on which I 
was habitually blameable, and there I have 
secured myself in the way pointed out by I 
nature and nature's God. I was sensible I 
tiiat, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, 
a wife and family were incumbrances, which 
a species of prudence would bid hmi shun ; 
but when the alternative was, being at ete.- 
iial warfare with myself, on account of 
habitual follies, to give them no worse name, 
which no general example, no licentious wit, 
no sophistical intidelity, would, to Bie, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to have 
hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" 
a long and much-loved fellow-creature's hap- 
jiiness or misery among my hands, and who 
could trifle with such a deposit ? 

In the aft'air of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
fiirm ; but should they fail, I have an Excise 
cmimission, which, on my simple petition, 
wi'l at any time procure me bread. There is 
ft certain stigma atlixed to the character of an 
I'l^cise officer, but 1 do not i)retend to borrow 
honour from my profession ; and though the 
salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to 
any thing that the tirst twenty-five years of 
Kiy life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method u 
life, yot may eaily guess, my reverend and 
much hcmoured friend, that my characteris- 
tic trade is not forgotten. I am, if possiijle, 
more than ever an enthusiast to the muses, 
I am djetermined to study man and natuie, 
and in that view incessantly ; and to try d 
the ripening and corrections of years can 
enable me to produce something worth pre- 
serving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg 
your pardon for detaining so long (83), that 
I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of 
Nith. Some large poetic plans that are 
floating in my imagination, or partly put in 
execution, I shall impart to you when 1 have 
the pleasure of meeting with you, which, if 
you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have 
about the beginning of Jlarch. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must 
still allow nie to challenge ; for with what- 
ever unconcern I give up iny transient con- 
nection with the merely great, I cannot lose 
the patronising notice of the learned and 
good without the bitterest regret. 

IL B. 



NO. CLXI. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9th, 1789. 

My Dear Sir — Why I did not write to 
you long ago is what, even on the rack, I 
could not answer. If you can in your mind 
form an idea of indolence, dissiiiation, hurry, 
caies, change of country, entering on untried 
scenes of life, all combined, you will save me 
the trouble of a blushing apology. It could 
not be want of legard for a man for whom 
I had a high esteem before I knew him — 
an esteem which has much increased since 
I did know him ; and this caveat entered, I 
shall plead guilty to any other indictment 
wiih which you shall please to charge ine. 

After 1 parted from you, for many month* 
my life was one continued scene of dissipa- 
tion. Here, at last, I am become stationary, 
and have taken a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the 
Nith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, 
and falls into the Solway Frith. I hava 
gotten a lease of my farm as long as I 
pleased ; but how it may turn out is just a 
guess, and it is yet to diprove and enclose^ 
&c. : however, I havs ^ood hopes of uij 
bargain ou the whole. 



v^ 



''T^. 



•Vvj 







TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



34d 



My wife is my Jetn, with whose story you 
are partly acquainted. I found I had a 
much-loved fello\v-crea(;ure's hapjiiness or 
misery among my hands, and 1 durst not 
trille with so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I 
have not any reason to repent the step I 
have taken, as I have attached myself to a 
very good wife, and have shaken myself 
loose of every had failing. 

I have found ray book a very profitable 
business, and with the profits of it I have 
begun life pretty decently. Should fortune 
nst favour me in farming, as I have no great 
faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided 
myself in another resource, which, however 
Some folks may affect to despise it, is still a 
comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. 
In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, 
whose name, at least, I dare say you know, 
.88 his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, 
Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the Commis- 
sioners of Excise offered me the commission, 
of an Excise officer. I thought it prudent to 
accept the offer ; and, accordingly, 1 took my 
instructions, and have my commission by me. 
'Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny 
the better for it, is what I do not know ; 
but I have the comfortable assurance, that, 
come whatever ill fate will, I can, on my 
simple petition to the Excise-board, get into 
employ. 

We have lost poor uncle Robert this 
winter. He has long been very weak, and 
with very little alteration on him : he expired 
3rd January. 

Ilis son William has been with me this 
winter, and goes in May to be an apprentice 
to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, 
comes to me, I expect, in summer. They 
are both remarkably stout young fellows, 
and promise to do well. His only daughter, 
Fauny, has been \yith me ever since her 
father's death, and 1 purpose keeping her in 
my family till she be quite woman grown, 
and fit for better service. She is one of the 
cleverest girls, and has one of the most 
amiable dispositions, I have ever seen. (84) 

All friends in this county and Ayrshire 
are well. Remember me to all friends in 
the north. My wife joins me in compliments 
to Mrs. B. and family. 1 am ever, my dear 
cousin, yours a'^sioerely, K. B. 



NO. CLXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellidand, March 4.th, 1789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned 
ndt from the capitaL To a man who has a 



home, however humble oi remote — if that 
home is like mine, the scene of domestic 
comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon 
he a business of sickening disgust. 

^'ain pomp and glory of this world, I hate 
you! 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim, " What merits has he had, or 
what demerit have I had, in some state of 
pre-existence, that he is ushered into this 
state of being with the sceptre of rule, and 
the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am 
kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or 
the victim of pride?" I have read some- 
where of a monarch (in Spain I think it w as) 
who was so out of humour with the Ptole- 
mean system of astronomy, that he said, had 
he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and 
absurdity. I wdl not defend this blasphe- 
mous speech; but often, as I have glided 
with humble stealth through the pomp of 
Princes' Street, it has suggested itself to me, 
as an improvement on the present human 
figure, that a man, in proportion to his own 
conceit of his consequence in the world, 
could have pushed out the longitude of his 
common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, 
or as we draw out a perspective. This 
trifling alteration, not to mention the [iro- 
digious saving it would be in the tear and 
wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many 
of his Majesty's liege-subjects, in the way of 
tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would 
evidently turn out a vast advantage, in 
enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials 
in making a bow, or making way to a great 
man, and that, too, within a second of the 
precise spherical angle of reverence, or an 
inch of the particular point of respcclfiil 
distance, which the important creature itseh 
requires ; as a measuring-glance at its 
towering altitude wonld determine the afl'air 
like instinct. 

You are right. Madam, in your idea of 
poor Mylne's poem, which he has addressed 
to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, 
but it has one great fault — it is by far too 
long. Besides, my success has encouraged 
such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to ciawl 
into public notice, under the title of Scottish 
IKjets, that the very term Scottish poetry 
borders on the burlesque. When I write to 
Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try 
one of his deceased friend's English pieces. 
I am prodigiously hue ied with my owa 
matte *•», else I would have requested » 




Hi 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



peniaal of all Mylne's poetic performances, 
and would have offered his friends my 
assistance, in either selecting or correcting 
what would be proper for the press. Wliat 
It is that occupies me so much, and perhaps 
a little oppresses my present spirits, shall 
fill up a paragraph in some future letter. lu 
the meantime, allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine. 
* * • « • J gi^-g yoy them, that, as 
you have seen the original, you may guess 
whether one or two alterations I have ven- 
tured to make in them be any real improve- 
ment :— i 

like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
draws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
And all you are, my charming * * * * seem. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells dis- 
close, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth they 
guess ; [love. 

Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred 
And even sick'niug Envy must approve. 
R B. 



NO. CLXIIb 



TO MR. (85) 

March, 1789. 

^Iy Dear Sir — The hurry of a farmer 
in this particular season, and the indoleuce of 
a poet at all times and seasons, will, I hope, 
plead my excuse for neglecting so long to 
answer your obliging letter of the 5th of 
August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 
laborious concern iu • • *, I do not 
doubt; the weighty reasons you mention, 
were, I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, 
weighty ones, and your health is a matter of 
the last importance; but whether the re- 
maining proprietors of the paper have also 
done well, is what I much doubt. The 
• * * *, so far as I was a reader, exhi- 
bited such a brilliancy of point, such an 
elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of 
intelligence, that 1 can hardly conceive it 
possible to continue a daily paper in the same 
degree of excellence : but if there was a man, 
who had abilities equal to the task, that 
man's aasistauce the proprietors have lost. 



When I received your letter I was tran* 

cribing for * * * * my letter to the 
magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, 
begging their permission to place a tomb- 
stone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in 
ctwisequence of my petition, but now I shall 

send them to . Poor Fergusson ! If 

there be a life beyond the grave, which I 
trust there is ; and if there be a good God 
presiding over all nature, which \ am sure 
there is — thou art now enjoying existence in 
a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing 
powers, return to their native sordid matter; 
where titles and honours are the disregarded 
revelies of an idle dream : and where that 
heavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
quence of steady dulness, and those thought- 
less, though often destructive follies, wliich 
are the unavoidable aberrations of frail 
human nature, will be thrown into equal 
oblivion as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir 1 So soon as your 
present views and schemes are concentered 
in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; 
as your welfare and happiness are by no nieani 
indifferent to, yours, R. B. 



NO. CLXm. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellislaiul, March 2Zr<l, 1739 

SiK — The gentleman who will deliver this 
is a Mr. Neilson, a worthy clergyman iu my 
neighbourhood (86), and a very particular 
acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled 
him v.ith this packet, I must turn him over 
to your goodness, to recompense him for it 
in a way in which he much needs your assist- 
ance, and where you can effectually serve 
him. Mr. Neilson is on his way for France, 
to wait on his Grace of Ciueensbury, on some 
little business of a good deal of importance 
to him, and he wishes for your instructions 
respecting the most eligible mode of travel- 
ling, &c. for him, wheu he iias crossed the 
Channel. I should not have dared to take 
this liberty with you, but that I am told, by 
those who' have the honour of your personal 
acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to 
you, and that to have it iu your power to 
serve such a characti" gives you tiucij 
pleasuK. 



c-^ — Q" 

' lllllllllllllml;^lllllllilllll^:lllllHllllllllillllllllllIm;;l^llltllllllllllllllllililllllllllilllll[|HllH|||||l|||||||^^ 



TO MR. HILL. 



345 



Tbfe eiwl jsed Ode is » compliment to the 
memory of the late Mrs. Oswald of Au- 
cheiicruive. You probably knew her per- 
sonally, an hononr of which I cannot 
boast ; but I spent my early years in her 
neighbourhood, and among her servants and 
tenants. I know that she was detested with 
the most heartfelt cordiality. However, 
in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie VVhigham's, 
in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the 
place. The frost was keen, and the grim 
evening and howling wind were ushering in 
a night of snow and drift. My horse and I 
were both much fatigued with the labours 
of the day, and just as my friend the Bailie 
and I were bidding defiance to the storm, 
over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral 
pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, 
and poor I am forced to brave all the hor- 
rors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, my young favourite horse, whom I 
had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles 
farther on, through the wildest moors and 
hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the 
next inn. The powers of poesy and prose 
sink under me, when I would describe what 
I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good 
fire at New Cumnock had so far recovered 
my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the 
enclosed Ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, 
that at last he has been amicable and fair 
with me. 

R. B. (87) 



wo. CLXV. 

TO MR. HILL. 
EUisland, April 2nd, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear Biblio- 
pohis, (God forgive me for murdering lan- 
guage !) that I have sat down to write you 
on this vile paper. 

It is economy. Sir; it is that cardinal 
virtue, prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, 
and either compose or borrow a panegyric. 
If you are going to borrow, apply to * * 
• * to compose, or rather to corapouii i, 
something very clever on my remarkable 
frugality ; that I write to one of my most 
esteemed friends on this wretched paper, 
which was originally intended for the 
Venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to 



take dirty notes m a miserable vault of an 
ale-cellar. 

Oh Frugality ! thou mother of ten thou- 
sand blessings — thou cook of fat beef and 
dainty greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm 
Shetland hose and comfortable surtouts ! — 
thou old housewife, darning thy decayed 
stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy 
aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy 
clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and 
through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible 
and impervious to my anxious, weary feet — 
not those Parnassian crags, bleak and 
barren, where the hungry worshippers of 
fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging 
between heaven and hell, but those glittering 
cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity, wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures: where the 
sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls 
of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of 
luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of 
paradise ! Thou withered sibyl, my sage 
conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, 
adored presence ! The poet, splendid and 
potent as he now is, was once the puling 
nursling of thy faithful care and tender 
arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy, 
kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god 
by the scenes of his infant years, no longer 
to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but 
to favour me with his peculiar countenance 
and protection ! He daily bestows his 
greatest kindness on the undeserving and 
the worthless — assure him that I bring 
ample documents of meritorious demerits! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glori- 
ous cause of lucre, I will do anything, be 
anything, but the horse-leach of pri- 
vate oppression, or the vtilture of public 
robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics. 

I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. 
There is a small debt of honour that I owe 
Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, 
my worthy friend, and your well-wislier. 
Please give him, and urge him to take it, the 
first time you see him, ten shillings' worth of 
any thing you have to sell, and place it to 
my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to 
you is already begun, under the direction of 
Captain Riddel. There is another in emu- 
lation of it going on at Closeburn, under the 
auspices of Mr. Monteath cf Closeburn, 
wliich will be on a greater scale than ours. 
Captsun Riddel gave hii infant society a great 




IIHIIHIIIIIini!IIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllllllll!IIIIIII!inilIIIII1ll!llllllllllll 



^^1 




146 



CORRESPONDET^GE OP BURNS. 



many of his old books, else I bad written you 
on tliat subject ; but, one of these days, I 
shall trouble you with a commission for 
"The Monldaud Friendly Society." A 
ccpy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger. 
Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Guthrie's 
Geographical Grammar, with some religious 
pieces, will likely be our first order. 

Whin I grow richer, I will write to you 
on gilt-post, to make amends for this sheet. 
At present every guinea has a five guinea 
errand with, my dear Sir, your faithful^ poor, 
but honest friend, E. B. 



NO. CLXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, April ith, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or 
fancy, but I wish to send it to you ; and if 
knowing and reading these give half the 
pleasure to you, that communicating them 
to yon gives to me, I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right. Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how 
long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A 
few of the first lines I have just rough 
sketched as follows : — 

" SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue aud vice bleud their black and 

their white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule aud law, reconciles contra- 
diction — [bustle, 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and 
whose glory. 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits. 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem 

mere lucky hits ; [so strong. 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; [bright. 

With passions so potent, and fancies so 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses." 



Ob the 20th current I hope to ^ave flw 
honour of assuring you iu person, how sin- 
cerely I am, yours, &c. B. B. 



WO. CLXVII. 

TO MRS. M'MURDO, 

DRUMLANRIG. (88) 

EUisland, May 2nd, 1789. 

Madam — I have finished the piece whic>\ 
had the happy fortune to be honoured with 
your approbation ; and never did little Miss 
with more sparkling pleasure show her ap- 
plauded sampler to partial Mamma, than I 
now send my poem to you and Mr. M'Murdo, 
if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot 
easily imagine what thin-skinned animals, 
what sensitive plants, poor poets are. How 
do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
self-abasement, whenneglected or condemned 
by those to whom we look up ! and how do 
we, in erect importance, add another cubit to 
our stature, on being noticed and applauded 
by those whom we honour and respect ! My 
late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, 
Jladara, given me a balloon waft up Parnas- 
sus, where on my fancied elevation I regard 
my poetic self with no small degree of com- 
placency. Surely, with all their sins, the 
rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatines. 
I recollect your goodness to your humble 
guest — I see Mr. JI'Murdo adding to the 
politeness of the gentleman the kindness of 
a friend, and my heart swells as it would 
burst, with warm emotions and ardent 
wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude — it 
may be a mixed sensation. That strange, 
shifting, doubling animal, man, is so gene- 
rally, at best, but a negative, often a worth- 
less creature, that we cannot see real goodness 
and native worth, without feeling the bosom 
glow with sympathetic approbation. AVith 
every sentiment of grateful respect, I have 
tlie honour to be. Madam, your obliged aud 
grateful humble servant. K. B 



NO. CLXVIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, May 4th, 1789. 

My Dear Sir — Your duty-free favour of 
the 26th Apr\I I received two days ago ; I 



TO RICHARD BROWN. 



841 



trill not say I perused it with pleasure — 
that IS the cold compliment of ceremony — I 
perused it, Sir, with delicious satisfaction ; 
in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor 
your friend, but the legislature, by express 
proviso ill their postage laws, should frank. 
A letter informed with the soul of friendship 
is such an honour to human nature, that 
they should order it free ingress and egress 
to and from their bags and mails, as an en- 
couragement and mark of distinction to 
supereminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little 
poem, which I think will be something to 
your taste. One morning lately, as I was 
out pretty early in the fields, sowing some 
grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from 
a neighbouring plantation, and presently a 
poor little wounded hare came crippling by 
me. You will guess my indignation at the 
inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at 
this season, when all of tiicm have young 
ones. Indeed, there is something in that 
business, of destroying for our sport indi- 
viduals in the animal creation that do not 
injure us materially, which I could never 
reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
Tlie bitter little that of life remains ; 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
plains. 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form; 
Tliat wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed. 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
head, [warm. 

The cold earth with thy blood -stain'd bosom 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 

The playful pair crovifd fon<lly by thy side ; 

Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now pro- 
That life a mother only can bestow ? [vide 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and moura 
thy hapless fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I 
am doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
provement to keep out the last stanza but 
one altogether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the 
Wf.thor of man. You, he, and the noble 

31 



Colonel of the Crochallan Feucihles are to 
me — 

Dear as the ruddy drops which warm dij 
heart. 

I have got a good mind to make verses on 
you all, to the tune of " Three guid Fellows 
ayout the Glen." R. B. (89) 



NO. CLXIX. 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 

Moss(jiel, May 4tli, 1789. 

Dear Uncle — This, I hope, will find 
you and your conjugal yoke-fellow in your 
good old way ; I am impatient to know if 
the Ailsa fowling be commenced for thia 
season yet, as I want three or four stones of 
feathers, and I hope you will bespeak them 
for me. It would be a vain attempt for me 
to enumerate the various transactions 1 have 
been engaged in since I saw you last, but 
this know, I am engaged in a smuf/(jliiig 
trade, and God knows if ever any poor man 
experienced better returns, two for one; 
but as freight and delivery have turned out 
so dear, I am thinking of taking out a 
licence and beginning in fair trade. I have 
taken a farm on the borders of the Nith, 
and. m imitation of the old patriarchs, get 
men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks 
and herds, and beget sous and daughters. 
Your obedient nephew, B. B. 



MO. CLXX. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Maxicldine, May \st, 1789. 

My Dear Friend— I was in the country 
by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival, 
I could not resist the temptation of wishing 
you joy on your return — wishing you would 
write to me before you sail again — wishing 
you would always set me down as your 
bosom friend— wishing you long life and 
prosperity, and that every good thing may 
attend you— wishing Mrs. Brown and your 
little ones as free of the evils of this 
world as is consistent with humanity — 
wishing you and she were to make two at 
the ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs. B, 
threatous very soon to favour me— wishing 
I had longer time to write to you at 



COEEESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



present; and, finally, wishing that, if there 
is to be another state of existence, Mr. B., 
Mrs. B., our little ones, and both families, 
and you and I, in snug retreat, may make a 
jovial party to all eternity ! 

My direction is at EUislaud, near Dum- 
fries. Yuuis, K. B. 



NO. CLXXI. 

TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. 

Ellisland, May 26th, 1789. 

Dear Sir — I send you by John Glover, 
carrier, the above account for Mr. Turubull, 
08 I suppose you know his address. 

I would fain otfer, my dear Sir, a word of 
sympathy with your misfortunes : but it is 
a. tender string, and I know not how to 
touih it. It is easy to flourish a set of 
high-flown sentiments on the subjects that 
would give great satisfaction to — a breast 
quite at ease ; but as one observes who 
wins very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
life, "The heart knoweth its own sorrows, 
and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
with." 

Among some distressful emergencies that 
\ have experienced in life, I ever laid this 
down as my foundation of comfort — 2'hat he 
who has lived the life of an honest man, has 
by no means lived in vain ! 

With every wish for your welfare and 
future success, I am, my dear Sir, sincerely 
youis, B. B. 



NO. CLXXIl. 



TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esa 

Ellisland, May 30th, 1789. 

Sir — I had intended to have troubled 
you with a long letter ; but at present the 
delightfid sensation of an omnipotent tooth- 
ache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put 
it out of my power even to write nonsense. 
However, as in duty bound, I approach 
my bookseller with an offering in my hand 
— a few poetic clinches, and a song : — to 
expect any other kind of otfering fi-om the 
rhyming tribe would be to know them much 
less than you do. I do not pretend that 
there is much merit in these morceaux, i)ut 
I have two reasons for sending them; primo, 
they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison 
with my present feelings, while fifty troops 



of infernal spirits are driving post, from (^.ii 
to ear along my jaw-bonts ; and, tecv,. 7 
they are so short, that you cannot leave • 1 
in the middle, and so hurt my pride in 1 ^^ 
idea that you found any work of mine ti^o 
heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not 
only beg of you, but conjure you, by all 
your wishes and by all your hopes, that the 
muse will spare the satiric wink in the 
moment of your foibles ; that she will 
warble the song of rapture rour.d your 
hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed oa 
your turf the honest tear of elegiac grati- 
tude ! Grant my request as speedily as 
possible — send me by the very first fly or 
coach from this place, three copies of the 
last edition of my poems, which place to my 
account. 

Now may the good thj.gs of prose, and 
the good things of verse, come among thy 
hands, until they be filled with the r/ood 
things of this life, prayeth R. B. 



NO. CLXXIII. 

TO MR. M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON. 

Ellisland, June 4fA, 1789. 

Dear Sir — Though I am not without 
my fears respecting my fate, at that grand, 
universal inquest of right and wrong, com- 
monly called The Last Day, yet I trust 
there is one sin, which that arch-vagabond, 
Satan, who I understand is to be king's evi- 
dence, cannot'throw in my teeth, — I mean 
iugratitude. There is a certain pretty large 
quantum of kindness for which I remain, and 
from inability, 1 fear must still remain, your 
debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly 
remember the obligation. It gives me the 
sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaint- 
ance, jMr. Kennedy, that you are, in immor- 
tal Allan's language, " Hale, and weel, and 
living ; " and that your charming family are 
well, and promising to be an amiable and 
respectable addition to the company of per- 
formers, whom the Great Manager of the 
Drama of Man is bringing into action for 
the succeeding age. 

\Mth respect to my welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively in- 
terested yourself, I am here in my old way, 
holding my plough, marking the growth ol 
my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at 
times sauntering by the dehghtful wiivliug* 



TO MK. M'MURDO. 



349 



of the Nith, on the marjrin of which I have 
built my humble domicile, praying for sea- 
souable weather, or holJitig an intrigue with 
the Muses, the only gipsies with whom I 
have now any intercourse. As I am entered 
into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my 
face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and 
as it is a rule with all honest fellows to 
repeat no grievances, I hope that the little 
poetic licences of former days will, of course, 
fall under the oblivious influence of some 
good-natured statute of celestial prescription. 
In my family devotioa, which, like a good 
Presbyterian, I occasionally give to my 
household folks, I am extremely fond of the 
psalm, "Let not the errors of my youth," 
&c., and that other, "Lo! children are God's 
heritage," &c., in which last Mrs. Burns, 
who, by the bye, has a glorious " wood-note 
wild " at either old song or psalmody, joins 
me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 
B. B. 



1»0. CLXXIV. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 8tk, 1789. 

AIy dear Friend — I am perfectly 
ashamed of myself when I look at the date 
of your last. It is not that I forget the 
friend of my heart and the companion of my 
peregrinations ; but I have been condeinned 
to drudgery beyond suft'erance, though not, 
thank God, beyond redemption. I have had 
'I collection of poems by a lady put into my 
^auds to prepare them for the press ; which 
Morrid task, with sowing corn with my own 
hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plasterers, 
&c., to attend to, roaming on business 
through Ayrshire — all this was against me, 
and the very first dreadful article was of 
itself too much for me. 

13th. — I have not had a moment to spare 
from incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my 
dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know, 
by experience, that a man's individual self is 
a good deal, but believe me, a wife and 
a family of children, whenever you have the 
honour to be a husband and a father, will 
show you that youi present and most 
anxious hours of solitude are spent on 
trifles. The welfare of those who are very 
dear to us, whose only support hope and 
itay we are — this, to a generous mind, is 
another sort of more important object of 
care than any concer»is whatever which 
ceuiie merely in the individual. Ou the 



other hand, let no young, unmarried, lake- 
belly dog among you, make a song of his 
pretended liberty and freedom from care 
If the relations we stand in to king, country, 
kindred, and friends, be any thing but tha 
visionary fancies of dreaming metaphy- 
sicians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, 
generosity, humanity, and justice, be ought 
but empty sounds ; then the man who may 
be said to hve only for others, for the 
beloved, honourable female, whose tender 
faithful embraces endears life, and for the 
helpless little innocents who are to be the 
men and women, the worshippers of his God, 
the subjects of his king, and the support, nay 
the very vital existence, of his country, ia 
the ensuing age — compare such a man with 
any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle 
and push in business among labourers, 
clerks, statesmen ; or whether he roar and 
rant, and drink and sing in taverns — a 
fellow over whose grave no one will breathe 
a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie 
of what is called good fellowship — who has 
no view nor aim but what terminates in 
himself — if there be any grovelling earth- 
born wretch of our species, a renegade to 
common sense, who would fain believe that 
the noble creature man is no better than a 
sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, 
nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in 
nothing nobody knows where ; such a stupid 
beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance 
the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but 
no one else would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long 
silence. To make you amends, I shall send 
you soon, and more encouraging still, 
without any postage, one or two rhymes of 
my later manufacture. R. B 



NO. CLXXV. 



TO MR. M'MURDO. 

Ellisland, June Idth, 1789 

Sir — A poet and a beggar are, in so many 
points of view, alike, that one might take 
them for the same individual character under 
difi'erent designations; were it not that 
though, with a trifling poetic licence, most 
poets may be styled beggars, yet the con- 
verse of the proposition does not hold, that 
every beggar is a poet. In one particular, 
however, they remarkably agree ; if you help 
either the one or the other to » mug of ale, 
or the picking of a bone, they will very wil- 
lingly repay you with a song. This occun 



«6o 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUENS. 



to me at present, as I have just disiiatched a 
well lined rib of John Kirkpatrick's High- 
lander — a bargain for which I am indebted 
to you, in the style of our ballad printers, 
" Five excellent new songs." The enclosed 
is nearly my newest song, and one that has 
cost me some pains, though that is but an 
equivocal mark of its excellence. Two or 
three others, which I have by me, shall do 
themselves the honour to wait on your after 
leisure : petitioners for admittance into favour, 
must not harass the condescension of their 
benefactor. 

Yon see. Sir, what it is to patronise a poet. 
Tis like being a magistrate in a petty 
borough ; you do them the favour to preside 
in their council for one year, and your name 
bears the prefatory stigma of bailie for life, 

With^ not the compliineuts, but the best 
wishes, the sincerest prayers of the season 
for you, that you may see many and happy 
years with Mrs. M'JSIurdo, and your family ; 
iwo blessings, by the bye, to which your 
laiik does not, by any means, entitle you — 
a loving wife and fine family being almost 
the only good things of this life to which 
the farm-house and cottage have an exclu- 
sive right. 1 have the honour to be, Sir, 
your much indebted and very hum>ilp 'jer- 
raat, B. B. 



MO. CLXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, June 2\st, 1789. 

Dear IVIadam — Will you take the effu- 
gions, the miserable effusions of low spirits, 
just as they flow from their bitter spring ? 
I know not of any particular cause for tliis 
worst of all my foes besettmg me ; but for 
some time my soul has been beclouded with 
a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations 
and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening. 

T have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach 
« sermon. He is a man famous for his 
benevolence, and I revere him ; but, from 
»uch ideas of my Creator, good Lord, deliver 
tae ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
a simple business, as it equally concerns the 
Ignorant and the learned, the poor and the 
rich. That there is an incomprehensible 
Great Being, to whom I owe my existence, 
and that he must he intimately acquainted 
Vi'ith the operations and progress of the in- 
"^rual machinery, and consequent outward 



deportment of this creature which he ha» 
made — these are, I think, self-evident propo- 
sitions. That there is a real and etcrpal 
distinction between virtue and vice, and con 
sequently, that I am an accountable creature ; 
that from the seeming nature of the human 
mind, as well as from the evident imperfec- 
tion, nay, positive injustice, in the adminis- 
tration of affairs, both in the natural and 
moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
scene of existence beyond the grave — must, 
I think, be allowed by every one who will 
give himself a moment's reflection. I will 
go farther, and affirm, that from the sub- 
limity, excellence, and purity of his doctrine 
and precepts, unparalleled by all the aggre- 
gated wisdom and learning of many preceding 
ages, though, to appearance, he himself was 
the obscurest and most illiterate of our 
species — therefore Jesus Christ was from 
God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion 
of goodness ; and whatever injures society 
at large, or any individual in it, this is my 
measure of iniquity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed? 
I trust that I have said nothing that will 
lessen me in the eye of one whose good 
o'ltinion I value almost next to the approba- 
tion of my own mind. K. B. 



NO. CLXA.VII. 



TO MISS WILLIAMS. (90) 

EUisland, 1789. 

Madam — -Ot the many problems in the 
nature of that wonderful creature, man, this 
is one of the most extraordinary : — that he 
shall go on from day to day, from week to 
week, from month to month, or perhaps 
from year to year, suffering a hundred times 
more in an hour from the impotent consci- 
ousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
than the very doing of it would cost him. I 
aru deeply indebted to you, first, for a most 
elegant poetic compliment ; then, for a polite, 
obliging letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent 
poem on the slave-trade; and yet, wretch 
that I am ! though the debts were debts of 
honour, and the creditor a lady, I have pu* 
off and put off even the very acknowledg- 
ment of the obligation, until you must indeed 
be the very angel I take you for, if you can 
forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highesi 



TO MRS. DUN LOP. 



351 



pleasure I have a way whenever I read a 
'.lOok — I mean a book in our own trade, 
INIadam, a pontic one — and when it is ray 
own property, that I take a pencil and mark 
at the ends of verses, or note on margins and 
odd paper, little criticisms of approbation or 
disapprobation as 1 peruse along. I will 
make no apology for presenting you with a 
few unconnected thoughts that occurred to 
me in my repeated perusals of your poem. 
I want to show you that I have honesty 
enough to tell yoii what I take to be truths, 
even when they are not quite on the side of 
approbation ; and I do it in the firm faith 
that you have equal greatness of mind to 
hear them with pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from 
Dr. Moore, where he tells me that he has 
sent me some books ; they are not yet come 
to hand, but I hear they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress 
in the path of fame, and that you may 
equally escape the danger of stumbling 
through incautious speed, or losing ground 
through loitering neglect. R. B. (91) 



NO. CLXXVIII. 

TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. (92) 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Awj. tth, 1789. 

Deak Sir — I intended to have written 
you long ere now, and, as I told you, 1 had 
gotten three stanzas and a half on my way 
in a poetic epistle to you ; but that old 
enemy of all good works, the devil, threw me 
into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I 
cannot get out of it. I dare not write you 
a long letter, as I am going to intrude on 
your time with a long ballad. I have, as you 
will shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm;" 
but now that it is done, and I have laughed 
once or twice at the conceits in some of the 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get 
into the public ; so I send yoia this copy, 
tile first I have sent to A yrshire, except some 
few of the stanzas, which I wrote off in 
embryo, for Gavin Hamilton, under the 
express provision and request that you will 
only read it to a few of us, and do not ou 
any account give, or permit to be taken, any 
copy of the ballad. If 1 could be of any 
service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though 
it should be at a much greater expense than 
irritating a few bigoted priests ; but 1 am 
afraid serving him in his present embarras is 
ft task too hard for me. I have enemies 
enow, God knows, though 1 do not wantonly 



add to the number. Still, as. I think there ia 
some merit in two or three of the thoughts^ 
I send it to you as a small, but sincere 
testimony how much, and with what respecU 
ful esteem, I am, dear Sir, your obliged 
humble servaat, R. B. 



NO. CLXXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Ellisland, Sept. 6th, 1789. 

Dear Madam — I have mentioned in my 
last, my appointment to the Excise, and the 
birth of little Frank ; who, by the bye, I 
trust will be no discredit to the honourable 
name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly 
countenance, and a figure that might do 
credit to a little fellow two months ulder ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
namesake blew, as a signal to take out the 
pin of Stirling bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part 
poetic and part prosaic, from your poetess, 
Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious, but modest 
composition. I should have written her as 
she requested, but for the hurry of this new 
business. I have heard of her and her com- 
positions in this country ; and, 1 am happy 
to add, always to the honour of her character. 
The fact is, I know not well how to write to 
her ; I should sit down to a sheet of paper 
that 1 knew not how to stain. 1 am no dab 
at fine-drawn letter-writing ; and, except 
when prompted by friendship or gratitude, 
or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired 
by the muse (I know not her name) that 
presides ovtir epistolary vv'ritiiig, I sit down, 
when necessitated to write, as I would sit 
down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20t!li 
August, struck me with the most melaoi> 
choly concern for the state of your mind at 
present. 

Would I could write you a letter of com- 
fort, I would sit down to it with as much 
pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of 
my own composition, that should equal the 
Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
comfort ! A strong persuasion in a futura 
state of existence ; a proposition so obviously 
probable, that, setting revelation aside, every 
nation and people, so far as investigation has 
reached, for at least near four thousand 
years, have, in some mode or other, firmly 
believed it. In vain would we reason md 



352 



COKRESPONDENCE OF BUBNS. 



pretend to 'loubt. I have myself done so to 
a very daring pitch ; but when I reflected 
that I was opposing the most ardent wishes, 
and the most darUng hopes of good men, 
and flying in tlie face of all human belief, ia 
all ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you 
the following lines, or if you have ever seen 
them ; but it is one of my favourite quota- 
tions, which I keep constantly by me in my 
Progress through life, in the language of the 
ook of Job :— 

Against the day of battle and of war — 

■poken of religion :— 

•'Tis tMs,my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
Tis thin iliat gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 

are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes 

pursue : 
Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

smart. 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies." 

I have been busy with Zeluco. The 
doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of ic ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
•ome kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall, 
however, digest my thoughts on the subject 
as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling 
Wrformauce. 

Farewell ! A Dieu, U bo» Dieu, je vou$ 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CARSE. 

Ellisland, Oct. IGth, 1789. 

Sir- Big with the idea of this important 
day at Friars Carse, I have watched the 
elements and skies in the tuU persuasion 
that they would announce it to the astonished 
world by some phenomena of terrific portent. 
Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait 
with anxious horror for the appearance of some 
comet firing half the sky; or aerial armies of 
sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart 
the startled heaveiis, rapid as the ragged 
lightning, and horrid as those com^ulsioas of 
nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the 



matter very quietly; they did not even jsher 

in this morning with triple suns and a 
shower of blood, symbolical of the three 
potent heroes, and the mighty claret-shed of 
the day. For me, as Thomson in his 
Winter says of the storm — I shall " Hear 
astonished, and astonished sing " 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &C. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loun is he : 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa*. 

He is the king amang us three. 

To leave the heights of Parnassus, and 
come to the humble vale of prose. I have 
some misgivings that I take too much upon 
me, when I request you to get your guest, 
Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank the two enclosed 
covers for me, the one of them to Sir 
William Cunningham, of Robertland, Bar* 
at Kilmarnock — the other, to Mr. Allan 
Masterton, Writing-.Master, Edinburgh. The 
first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as 
being a brother baronet, and likewise a keen 
Foxite : the other is one of the worthiest 
men in the world, and a man of real genius ! 
so, allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim 
on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, 
as I cannot get them to the post to-night. 
I shall send a servant again for them in the 
evening. Wishing that your head may be 
crowned with laurels to-night, and free from 
aches to-morrow, I have the honour to be, 
Sir, yotu deeply indebted humble servant. 



no. CLXXXI. 

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 

Ellisland, 1789. 

Sir — I wish from my iiuuost soid it were 
in my power to give you a n.ore substantial 
gratification and return for all the goodness 
to the poet, than transcribing a few of his 
idle rhymes. However, " an old song," 
though to a proverb an instance of insignifi- 
cance, is generally the only coin a poet has 
to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe, into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem 



TO ME. RICHARD BROWN. 



353 



I bear for the gentleman to whom I pre* nt 
them, thej would be the inest poems in the 
language. As they are, they will at least 
be a testimony with what sincerity I have 
the honour to be, Sir, your devoted humble 
servaut, R. B 



NO. CLXXXII. 



TO MR ROBERT AINSLTE. 

Ellisland, Nov. 1st, 1789. 

My Dear Friend — I had written you 
long ere now, could I have guessed where to 
find you, for I am sure you have more good 
sense than to waste the precious days of 
vacation time in the dirt of business and 
Ediiiburirh. Wherever you are, God bless 
you, and lead, you not into temptation, but 
deliver you from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that 
I am now appointed to an Excise division, 
in the middle of which my house and farm 
lie. In this I was extremely lucky, "\^'ithout 
ever having been an expectant, as they call 
their journeymen excisemen, I was directly 
planted down to all intents and purposes an 
officer of Excise, there to flourish and bring 
forth fruits— worthy of repen'.ance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or 
still more opprobrious, ganger, will sound in 
your ears. I, too, have seen the day when 
my auditory nerves would hwre felt very 
delicately on this subject ; but a wife and 
children are things which have a wonderful 
power in blunting these kind of sensations. 
Fifty pounds a-year for life, and a provision 
for widows an 1 orphans, you will allow is no 
bad settlement for a poet. For he ignominy 
of the profession, I have the encouragement 
which I once heard a recruiting sergeant 
give to a nurr.erous, if not a respectable 
audience, in th^ streets of Kilmarnock : — 
" Gentlemen, ft your further and better 
encouragement, I can assure you that oui 
regiment is the most blackguard corps under 
the crown, anil consequently with us an 
honest fellow lias the surest chance of pre- 
fermeut." 

You need n t doubt that I find several 
very unpleasant and dijagreeable circum- 
stances in my business ; but I am tired with 
and disgusted at the language of cora^ilaiut 
•gainst the evils of life. Human existence, 
in the most favourable situations, does not 
abound with p'easures, and has its incon- 
veniences and ills ; capricious foolish man 
mistakes these 'uconveniences and ills as if 



they were the peculiar property of his parti- 
cular situation ; and hence that eternal 
fickleness, that love of change, which has 
ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine 
fellow, as well as many a blockhead, and is 
almost without exception a constant source 
of disappointment and misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — 
not so much in business as in life. Are yon 
pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, 
and tolerably at ease in your internal re- 
flections? 'Tis much to be a great charactei 
as a lawyer, but beyond comiiarison more to 
be a great character as a man. That you 
may be both the one and the other is tlie 
earnest -nish, and that you will be both ii 
the firm persuasion of, my dear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



wo. CLxxxm. 
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Ellisland, November ith, 1789. 

I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear 
friend, that though I got both your letters, 
I have not been able to command an 
hour to answer them as I wished ; and even 
now, you are to look on this as merely con- 
fessing debt, and craving days. Few things 
could have given me so much pleasure as 
the news that you were once more safe and 
sound on terra firma, and happy in that place 
where happiness is alone to be foimd — in the 
fireside circle. May the benevolent Director 
of all things peculiarly bless you in all those 
endearing connections consequent on the 
tender and venerable names of husband and 
father ! I have indeed been extrenielv 
lucky in getting an additional income of 
£50 a-year, while at the same time, the 
appointment will not cost me above £10 or 
£12 per annum of expenses more than I 
must have inevitably incurred. The worst 
circumstance is, that the Excise divisicm 
which 1 have got is so extensive, no less 
than ten parishes to ride over ; and it 
abounds besides with so much business, that 
I can scarcely steal a spare moment. How- 
ever, labour endears rest, and both together 
are absolutely necessary for the proper en- 
joyment of human existence. I cannot 
meet you anywhere. No less than an 
order from the board of Excise, at Edin- 
burgh, is necessary before I can have so 
much time as to meet you in Ayrshi"^ 
But do you come, and see me. We must 
have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it 




CORRESPONDEXCE OF BUEJiTS. 



out with half the night, before you go again 
to sea. You are the earliest friend I now 
have on earth, my brothers excepted ; and 
is not that an endearing circumstance? 
When you and I first met. we were at the 
green period of human life. The twig 
would easily take a bent, but would as 
easily return to its former state. You and 
I not only took a mutual bent, but, by the 
melancholy, though strong influence of 
being both of the feraily of the unfortunate, 
we were entwined with one another in our | 
l^owth towards advanced age : and blasted | 
be the sacrilegious hand that should at- 
tempt to undo the union ! You and I must • 
have one bumper to our favourite toast, . 
" Jlay the companions of our youth be the ! 
friends of our old age ! " Come and see me \ 
one year ; I shall see you at Port-Glasgoiv 
the next ; and if we can contrive to have a 
gossiping between our two bed-fellows, it 
will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. 
Burns joins rae iu kind comphments to you 
•nd i\Irs. Brown. Adiea ! I am ever, my 
4ear Sir, yours, R- B- 



WO. cLxxxnr. - 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa. 

OF FINTRY. 

December 9th, 1789. 

Sir — ^I have a good while had a wish to 
trouble you with a letter, and had certainly 
done it long ere now — but for a humiliating 
«ometliing that throws cold water on the 
resolution, as if one should say, " You have 
found jMr. Graham a very powerful and kind 
friend indeed, and that interest he is so 
kindly taking in your concerns you ought, 
by every thing in your power, to keep alive 
and cherish." Now, though since God has 
thought proper to make one powerful and 
another powerless, the connection of 
obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though 
my being under your patronage is highly 
honourable, yet. Sir, ftUow me to flatter my- 
Belf, that, as a poet fmd. an honest man, 
you first interested yourself in my welfare, 
and principally as such, stiU you permit me 
to approach you. 

I have found the Excise business go on a 
great deal smoother with me than I ex- 
pected, owing a good deal to the generous 
friendship of Mr. Mitchel, my collector, and 
the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, mv 
tnperrisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear 



no labour. Nor do I find my hurried lif« 
greatly inijiucal to iriy correspondence \rith 
the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and 
I believe to most of their acquaintance, like 
the visits of good angels, are short and far 
between ; but I meet them now and then aa 
I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as 
I used to do on the banks of Ayr. 1 taka 
the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, 
all of them the productions of my leisuna 
thoughts in my Excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain 
Grose, the antiquary, you will enter, into 
any humour that is in the verses on him. 
Perhaps you have seen them before, as I 
sent them to a London newspaper. Though 
I dare say you have none of the soleran- 
league-and-covenant fire, which slione so 
conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and 
the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the 
clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. 
God help him, poor man ! Though he is 
one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest, of the whole priesthood of the Kirk 
of Scotland, in every sense of that ambigu- 
ous terra, yet the poor Doctor and his 
numerous family are in iminent danger ol 
being thrown out to the mercy of the 
winter-winds. Tlie enclosed ballad on that 
business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed 
myself at some conceits in it, though I am 
convinced in my conscience that there are a 
good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of 
boroughs. I do not believe there will be 
such a hard run match in the whole general 
election. 

• * « « 

I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties : but a man who has it in 
his power to be the father of a country, and 
who * * » * *^ (93j is a character tltat ob« 
ciinnot speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but 
yet I doubt his fate. K. B. 



MO. CLXXXT. 

TO MRS. DUNLOF. 
Ellisland, December 13M, 1789. 

Many thanks, my dear Madan?, for yora 
sheetful of rhymes. Though at present 1 







TO LADY CONSTABLE. 



35.S 



Bm below the veriest prose, yet from you 
every thine; pleases. I am groaning under 
the miseries of a diseased nervous system — - 
B system, the state of which is most con- 
ducive to our happiness, or the meat pro- 
ductive of our misery. For now near three 
weeks I have been so ill with a nervous 
headache, that I have been obliged for a 
time to give up my Excise-books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to 
ride once a-week over ten muir parishes. 
What is man? To day, in the luxuriance 
of health, exulting in the enjoyment of 
existence ; in a few days, perhaps in a few 
hours, loaded with conscious painful being, 
counting the tardy pace of the lingering i 
moments by the repercussions of anguish, , 
and refusing or denying a comforter. Day 
follows night, and night comes after day, 
only to curse him with life which gives hira 
no pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark ter- 
mination of that life is something at which 
he recoils. 

Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly he? 

'tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are. 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still iiud myself 
in conscious existence ? When the last 
gasp of agony has ainiounced that I am no 
more to those that knew me, and the few 
who loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, 
unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into 
the earth, to be the prey of unsightly rep- 
tiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, 
•hall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, 
enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, 
And holy flameus, is there probability iu 
your conjectures, truth in your stories, of 
another world lieyond death ; or are they all 
alike baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 
If there is another Ufe, it must be only for 
the juot, the benevolent, the amiable, and 
the hi'uiajie ; what a flattering idea then is 
a world to come ! Would to God I as 
5rmly believed it as I ardently wish it ! 
Inere, I should meet an aged parent, now at 
rest from the many buffetings of an evil 
world, against which he so long and so 
bravely struggled. There should 1 meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
hfe ; the man who rejoiced to see me, 
becaust he loved me and could serve me. 
Muir, thy weakness were the aberrations of 
human nature, but thy heart glowed with 
every thing generous, manly, and noble ; 
tnd if emanation from the All-good Being 



animated a human frame, it was thine I 
There should I, with speechless agony of 
rapture, again recognize mj' lost, my evei 
dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with 
truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ? 

Wliere is thy place of heavenly rest ? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of charactersf 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thj 
revelation of blissful scenes of existence 
beyond death and the grave, is not one of 
the many impositions which time after time 
have been palmed on credulous mankind. 
I trust that in thee " shall all the families of 
the earth be blessed," by being yet con- 
nected together in a better world, where 
every tie that bound heart to heart, in this 
state of existence, shall be, far beyond our 
present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with 
those who maintain, that what are called 
nervous affections are in fact diseases of the 
mind. 1 cannot reason, I cannot think ; 
and but to you I would not venture to 
write any thing above an order to a cobbler. 
You have felt too much of the ills of life not 
to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who 
has impaired more than half of any faculties 
he possessed. Your goodness wdl excuse 
this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare 
scarcely read, and which he would throw 
into the fire, were he able to write any 
thing better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of 
yours, who was returned from the East or 
West Indies. If you have gotten newa 
from James or Anthony, it was cruel in you 
not to let me know ; as I promised you, on 
the sincerity of a man, who is weary of one 
world, and anxious about another, that 
scarce any thing could give me so much 
pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
falling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up 
your pea iu pity to le pauvre miserable, 

R. B. 



NO. CLXXXVI. 

TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL 
CONSTABLE. (94) 

Ellisland, December 16th. 1789. 

My Lady — In vain I have, from day to day, 
expected to hear from Mris. Younjj, as sh* 



356 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



promised me at Dalswinton that she would 
do me the honour to introduce me at 
Tinwald ; and it was impossible, not from 
your ladyship's accessibility, but from my 
own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately, 
indeed, Mr. ftlaxwell of Carruchen, in his 
usual goodness, offered to accompany me, 
V. hen an unlucky indisposition on my part 
hindered my embracing the opportunity. 
To court the notice or the tables of the 
great, except where I sometimes have had 
a little matter to ask of them, or, more often, 
the pleasauter task of witnessing my grati- 
tude to thorn, is what I never have done, 
and I trust never shall do. But with your 
ladyship I have the honour to be connected 
by one of the strongest and most endearing 
ties in the whole moral world. Common suf- 
ferers, in a cause where even to be unfortu- 
nate is glorious, the cause of heroic loyalty ! 
I'liough my fathers had not illustrious 
lionoura and vast properties to hazard in the 
contest, though tliey left their humble 
cottages only to add so many units more to 
the unioted crowd that followed their 
leaders, yet what they could they did, and 
what they had they lost : with unshaken 
firmness, and unconcealed political attach- 
ments, they shook bands with ruin for what 
they esteemed the cause of their khig and 
their country. This language and the en- 
closed verses (95) are for your laily ship's 
eye alone. Poets are not very faraous for 
their prudence ; but as I can do nothmg for 
a cause which is now nearly no more, I do 
not wish to hurt myself. I have the honour 
to be, my lady, your ladyship'* obliged and 
obedient humble servant, £. B. 



HO. CLXXXTII. 

TO PROVOST MAXWELU 

OF LOCHMABEN. 

Ellisland, December 2Qth, 1789. 

Dear Provost — As my friend, Mr. 
Graham, goes for your good town to-morrow, 
I cannot resist the temptation to send you 
a few lines, and, as I have nothing to say, I 
have chosen tliis sheet of foolscap, and 
begun, as you see, at the top of the first 
page, because I have ever observed, that 
when once people have fairly set out, they 
know not where to stop. Now that my first 
sentence is concluded, I have nothing to do 
but to pray Heaven to help me on to 
Miother. Shall I write you on politics or 
religion, two master subjects for your sayers 



of nothing ? Of the first, I dare say by thtt 
time you are nearly surfeited (96); and for 
the last, whatever they may talk of it, who 
make it a kind of company concern, I never 
could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might 
write you on farming, on building, on mar- 
keting ; but my poor distracted mind is so 
torn, so jaded, so racked and bedeviled wit'.i 
the task of the superlatively damned to 
make one guinea do the hisiness of three, 
that I detest, abhor, and swoon, at the very 
word business, though no less than four 
letters of my very short surname are in it! 

Well, to make the matter short, I shall 
betake myself to a subject ever fruitful of 
themes— a subject the turtle feast of the 
sons of Satan, and the delicious secret sugar 
plum of the babes of grace — a subject 
sparkling with all the jewels that wit can 
find in the mines of genius, and pregnant 
with all tlie stores of learning from Mosea 
and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley — 
in short, may it please your lordship, I 
intend to write * • » 

[Here the poet inserted a song^ 

If at any time you expect a field-d:iy in 
your town, a day when dukes, earls, and 
knights, pay their court to weavers, tailors, 
and cobblers, I should like to know of it two 
or three days before-hand. It is not that I 
care three skips of a cur dog for the politics, 
but I should like to see such an exhibition 
of human nature. If you meet with that 
worthy old veteran in religion and good 
fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any of his amiable 
family (97), I beg you will give them my 
b^st compliments. IL B. 



HO. CLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. SUTHERLAND, PLAYER, 

ENCLOSING A PROLOGUE. 

Monday Morning. 
I WAS much disappointed, my dear Sir; 
in wanting your most agreeable company 
yesterday. However, I heartily pray for 
good weather next Sunday; and whatever 
aerial Being has the guidance of the ele- 
ments, may take any other half dozen o^ 
Sundays he pleases, and clothe them with 
Vapours, and clouds, and storms, 
Until he terrify himself 
At combustion of his own raising. 
I shall see you on Wednesday forenoou 
In the greatest hurry, R. £. 








TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 



357 



KO. 3LXXXIX. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

1790. 

Sir — The fojlowiiig circumstance has, I 
believe, been omitted in the statistical ac- 
count, transmitted to you, of the parish of 
Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send 
it to you, because it is new, and may be 
useful. How far it is deserving of a place 
in your patriotic publication, you are the 
Dest judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
with useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
great importance, both to tliem as indi- 
viduals, and to society at large. Giving 
them a turn for reading and reflection, is 
giving them a source of innocerit and lau- 
dable amusement, and, besides, raises them 
to a more dignified degree in the scale of 
rationality. Impressed with this idea, a 
gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circu- 
lating library, on a plan so simple, as to be 
practicable in any corner of the country ; 
and so useful, as to deserve the notice of 
every country gentleman, who thinks the 
improvement of that part of his own species, 
whom chance has thrown into the humble 
walks of the peasant and the artizaa, a 
matter worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own 
tenants, and farming neighbours, to form 
themselves into a society for the purpose of 
having a library among themselves. They 
entered into a legal engagement to abide by 
it for three years ; with a saving clause or 
two, in case of removal to a distance, or of 
death. Each member, at his entry, paid tive 
shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
which were held every fourth Saturday, six- 
pence more. With their entry-money, and 
the credit which they took on the faith of 
their future funds, they laid m a tolerable 
stock of books at the commencement. What 
authors they were to purchase, was always 
decided by the majority. At every meeting, 
ill the books, under certain tines and for- 
feitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
duced ; and the members had their choice of 
tlie volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood for that night first on the hst, had his 
choice of what volume he pleased in the 
whole collection ; the second had his choice 
after the first ; the third after the second ; 
wd so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the pre- 
.;eding meeting, was last at this; he who 
had been second was first; and so on 
through the whole three years. At the ex- 



piration of the eogagement, the books wera 
sold by auction, but only among the mem- 
bers themselves ; and each man had his 
share of the coramon stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr. 'Riddel's 
patronage, what with benefactions of books 
from him, and what with their own pur- 
chases, they had collected together upwards 
of one hundred and fifty volumes. It wUl 
easily be guessed that a good deal of trasb 
would be bought. Among the books, how- 
ever, of this little library, were — Blair's Ser- 
mons, Robertson's History of Scotland, 
Hume's History of the Stuarts, The Spec- 
tator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, 
Observer, Man of Feehng, Man of the 
World, Chrysal, Don (iuixote, Joseph 
Andrews, &c. A peasant who can read, 
and enjoy such books, is certainly a much 
superior being to his neighbour who, perhapi, 
stalks beside his team, very little removed, 
except in shape, from the brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, I am. Sir, your hum- 
ble servaut^ A Peasant (98). 



NO. CXO. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, January llik, 1790. 

Dear Brother — I mean to take advan- 
tage of the frank, though I have not in my 
present frame of mind much appetite for 
exertion in writing. My nerves are in a 
state. I feel that horrid hypo- 



chondria pervading every atom of both body 
and soul. This farm has undone my enjoy- 
ment of myself It is a ruinous affair on aU 

hands. But let it go to t ! I'll fiu-ht 

it out, and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent 
players here just now. I have seen them 
an evening or two. David Campbell, is 
Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the 
company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man 
of apparent worth. On New-year-day even- 
ing I gave him the following prologue, which 
he spouted to his audience with applause :— • 
" No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city," &c. 

I can no more. If once I was clear of 
this damned farm, I should respire more at 
ease. 



llllllllllHIIII Illllllllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllHllilllllllllHIIlllllHIII llllliiii:illllllll!Hllllllllii: lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll! 







^l^^ 




358 



C0RRESP0NDj5NCE OF BURNS. 



TO WILhlAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

Ellisland, January \Uh, 1790. 

SiNOE we are here creatures of a day, 
since " a few summer days, and a few winter 
ni:j^hts, and tlie life of man is at an end," 
why, ray dear much-esteemed Sir, should 
you and I let negligent indolence — for I 
know it is nothing worse — step in between 
us, and bar the enjoyment of a mutual cor- 
respondence? We are not shapen out of 
the common, heavy, metliodical clod, the 
elemental stuff of the plodding sellish race, 
the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our 
feelings and hearts are not benumbed and 
poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, 
which, whatever blessing they may be in 
other respects, are no friends to the nobler 
qualities of the heart : in the name of 
random sensibility, then, let never the moon 
change on our silence any more. I have 
had a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had heard from me long 
ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so 
much better as to be able to partake a little 
in tlie enjoyments of life. 

Our friend, Cuaningham, will perhaps 
nave told you of my going into the Excise. 
The truth is, I found it a very convenient 
business to have £50 per annum, nor have I 
yet felt any of these mortifying circum- 
Btances in it that I was led to fear. 

Feb. 2nd. — I have not, for sheer hurry of 
business, been able to spare five minutes to 
finish my letter. Besides my farm business, 
I ride on my E.\^cise matters at least 200 
miles every week. 1 have not by any means 
given up the Muses. You will see in the 
3rd vol. of Johnson's Scots songs that I 
aave contributed my mite there. 

B It, my dear Sir, little ones that look up 
ilo you for paternal protection are an im- 
portant charge. I have already two fine 
healthy stout little fellows, and I wish to 
throw some light npon them. I have a 
thousand reveries and schemes about them, 
and their future destiny. Not that I am a 
Utopian projector ni these things. I am 
resolved never to breed up a sou of mine to 
any of tlie learned professions. I know the 
value of independence, and since I cannot 
give my sons an independent fortune, I shall 
give them an independent line of life. What 
a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes is this 
world, when one sits soberly down to reflect 
on it ! To a father, wlio himself knows the 
world, the thought that he shall have sons 
to usher into it must hi] him with dread; 



but if he have daughters,.the prospect in a 
thoughtful moment is apt to shock him. 

I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two ywtng 
ladies are well. Do let me forget that they 
are nieces of yours, and let me say that I 
never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair 
of sisters in my life. I am the fool of m.j 
feelings and attachments. I often take up a 
volume of my Spenser to realise you to my 
imagination (99), and think over the social 
scenes we have had together. God grant 
that there may be another world more con- 
genial to honest fellows beyond this. A 
world where these rubs and plagues of 
absence, distance, misfortunes, ill-healtli, 
&c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide 
friendship. This I know is your throng 
season, but half a pa:;e will much oblige, 
my dear Sir, yours sincerely, > R. B. 



IfO. CXCII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, January 2Zth., 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you. 
Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly 
better, and I now begin once more to share 
in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest 
of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, 
for your kind letters; but why will you make 
rae run the risk of being, contemptible and 
mercenary in my own eyes? When I piipie 
myself on my independent spirit, I hope it 
is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant : 
and I am so flattered with the honour you 
have done me, in making me your compeer 
in friendship and friendly correspondence, 
that I cannot, without pain, and a degree o< 
mortification, be reminded of the real lu^ 
quality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my 
own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearteil, 
manly young fellow, in the little 1 had of liis 
acquaintance, has interested me deeply in hia 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
" Shipwreck," which you so much admire, is 
no more. After witnessing , the dreadful 
catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his 
poem, and after weathering many lard gales 
of fortune, he went to the bottom with th« 
Aurora frittate I 



,iiiiiiiiHiiiiiiii)Hiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiii;niiuiinnnini[!iiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiin^ 




TO MR. PETER HILL. 



33S 



I forget what part of Scotland had the 
honour of giving him birth, but he was the 
son of obscurity and misfortune. He was 
one of those daring adventurous spirits, 
which Scotland, beyond any other country, 
b remarkable for producing. Little does 
the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted 
over the sweet little leech at her bosom, 
where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, 
%.nd what may be his fate. I remember a 
stanza in an old Scottish ballad (lOUj, which, 
notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks 
ft ^luigly to the heart : — 

"Little did my mother think. 
That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in. 
Or what death I should die ! " 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a fa- 
vourite study and pursuit of mine; and now 
I am on that subject, allow me to give you 
two stanzas of another old shnple ballad, 
which I am sure will please you. The catas- 
trophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, 
lamentuig her fate. She conx;ludes with this 
pathetic wish : — 
"Oh that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

Oh that my mother had ne'er to me sung ; 
Oh that my cradle had not e'er been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when I was young ! 

Oh that the turf-clad grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding-sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And oh sae soundly sweet aa I should 
sleep ! " 

I do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with anything more truly the language 
of misery, than the exclamation in the last 
line. Misery is like love ; to speak its 
language truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to 
give your little godson (101 J the small-pox. 
It is rife in the country, and I tremble 
for his fate. By the way, I cannot help 
congratulating you on his looks and spirit. 
Every person who sees him acknowledges 
him to be the finest, handsomes't child he 
has ever seen. 1 am myself delighted with 
the manly swell of his little chest, and a cer- 
tain miniature dignity in the carriage of his 
head, and the glance of his fine black eye, 
which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, 
but time forbids. I promise you poetry 
until you are tired of it, next time I have 
the hoiiour of assuring you how tr dy I am, 
a* E. B. 



32 



NO. CXCIII. 

TO MR. lETER HELL, 

BOOKSELLEB, EDINBURGH. 

EUkland, Feb. 2nd, 1790. 

Wo ! I will not say one word about 
apologies or e.xcuses for not writing ; — I am a 
poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop 
at least 200 miles every week to inspect 
dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where 
can I find time to write to, or importance to 
interest any body ? The upbraidings of my 
conscienL?, nay the upbraidings of my wife, 
have persecuted me ou your account these 
two or three months past. I wish to God I 
was a great man, that my correspondence 
might throw light upon you, to let the world 
see what you really are : and then I would 
make your fortune, without putting my 
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all 
other great men, I suppose I would avoid as 
much as possible. What are you doing, and 
how are you doing ? Have you lately seen 
any of my few friends? What has become 
of the BOROUGH REFORM, or how is the 
fate of my poor namesake. Mademoiselle 
Burns, decided ? Oh man ! but for thee and 
thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, 
that beauteous form, and that once innocent 
and still ingenuous mind, might have shone 
conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, 
and the aifectionate mother; and shall the 
unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
no claim on thy humanity ! (102) 

I saw lately in a review some extracts 
from a new poem, called the " Village 
Curate ; " send it me. I want likewise a 
cheap copy of "The World." Mr. Arm- 
strong, the young poet, who does me the 
honour to mention me so kindly ni his 
works, please give him my best thanks for 
the copy of his book. I shall write him, my 
first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, 
but 1 tlimk his style in prose qmte aston- 
ishing. 

Your book came safe, and I am going tc 
trouble you with further commissions. ' 
call it troubling you — because I want only, 
BOOKS ; the cheapest way, the best; so you 
may have to hunt for them in the evening 
auctions. I want Smollett's Works, for the 
sake of his incomparable humour. I have 
already Roderick Random, and Humphrey 
Clinker. Perigrine Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, 
and Ferdiuand Count Fathom, I still want; 
but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies 
will serve me. I am nice only in the ap- 
pearance of my poets. I forget the price ol 
Cowper'i Poems, but I believe J must hav« 



CORRESVi l"C OENOR OF RTTR\S 



them. I sa'y, the other day, proposals for a 
publication, entitled, " Bank's new and com- 
plete Christian's Family Bible," printed for 
C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He 
promises, at least, to give in the work, I think 
it is three hundred and odd engravings, to 
which he has put the names of the first 
ertists in London. (103) You will know the 
character of the performance, as some num- 
bers of it are published : and if it is really 
what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
subscriJ)er, and send me the published 
numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure 
minute, and trust me, you shall in future 
have »io reason to complain of my silence. 
The dazzling perplexity of novelty will dis- 
sii)ate, and leave me to pursue my course in 
the quiet path of methodical routine. 

R. B. 



NO. CXCIT. 



TO MR. W. NICOL. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9th, 1790. 

My dear Sir — That mar" of yours 

is dead. I would freely have given her price 
to have saved her ; she has vexed rae beyond 
description. Indebted, as I was, to your 
goodness beyond what 1 can ever repay, I 
eagerly grasped at your olfer to have tlie 
mare with me. That I might at least show 
my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
took every care of her ui ray power. She 
was never crossed for riding above half a 
score of times by me, or in my keeping. I 
drew her in the plough, one of three, for one 
poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for 
her, which was tlie highest bode I could 
squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her 
in fine order for Dumfries fair; when four 
or five days before the fair, she was seized 
with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, 
or somewhere in the bones of the neck; 
with a weakness or total want of power in 
her fillets, and, in slu.rt, the whole vertebras 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and 
unhinged, and in eight and forty hours, in 
spite of the two best forriers in the country, 

phe died, and be to her ! The farriers 

Siiid that she had been quite strained in the 
fillets beyond cure before you had bought 
her; and that the pour devil, though she 
might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and 
quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. 
While she was with me, she was under my 



own eye, and, I assure you my much-valued 
friend, everything was dene for her that 
could be done ; and the accident has vexed 
me to the heart. In fact 1 could not pluck 
up spirits to write to you, on account of the 
unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our 
theatrical company, of which you must have 
heard, leave us this week. Their merit and 
character are, indeed, very great, both on the 
stage and in private life ; not a worthless 
creature among them ; and their encourage- 
ment has been accordingly. Tlieir usual ruQ 
is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds a- 
night ; seldom less than the one, and the 
house wiU hold no more than the other 
There have been repeated instances of send- 
ing away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
a-night for want ot room. A new theatre is 
to be built by subscription ; the first stone 
is to be laid on Friday first to come. Thre« 
hundred guineas have been raised by thirtj 
subscribers, and thirty more might have been 
got if wanted. The manager, Mr Suther- 
land, was introduced to me by a friend from 
Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I 
have rarely met with. Some of our clergy 
have slipt in by stealth now and then ; but 
they have got up a farce of their own. You 
must have heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson 
of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. 
Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest oi 
that faction, have accused, in formal process, 
the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron, oi 
Kirkgunzeon, that, in ordaining Mr. Nielson 
to the cure of souls in Kirkhean, he, the 
said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 
bound the said Nielson to the confession of 
faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and 
the word of God! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most 
gratefully to you. Little Bobby and Frank 
are charmingly well and healthy. I am 
jaded to death with fatigue. For these two 
or three months, on an average, I ha^e not 
ridden less than 200 miles per week. I have 
done little in the poetic way. I have given 
Mr. Sutherland two Prologues ; one of 
which was delivered last week. I have like- 
wise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to 
the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy 
on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning 
(the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay matre, 

As ever trode on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and 
Jittle Neddy, and all the family ; 1 hope Ned 



TO IVni. CITNNliNrGflAM:. 



361 



h a good scholar, and will come out to 
jTisther uuts and apples with me next harvest. 
R.B. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. (104) 

Ellisland, February I3th, 1790. 

T BEG your pardon, my dear and much- 
valued friend, for writing- to you on this 
very unfashionable, unsightly sheet. 

My poverty, but not my will, consents. 

But to make amends, since of modish post 
I have none, except one poor widowed half- 
sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer, among 
my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow 
of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite 
scoundrel. Necessity, has driven from Bur- 
gundy and Phieapple, to a dish of Bohea 
with the scandal-bearing help-mate of a 
village-priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy, 
with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot- 
padduig exciseman — I make a vow to enclose 
this sheet-full of epistolary fragments iu that 
my only scrap of gilt-paper. 

I am, indeed, your worthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
j'ou long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I 
will not write to you : Miss Burnet is not 
more dear to her guardian angel, nor his 
grace the Duke of Queen sherry to the 
powers of darkness, than my friend Cun- 
ningham to me. It is not that I cannot 
write to you ; should you doubt it, take the 
following fragment, which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced that I 
can anthesize sentiment, and circumvolute 
periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in 
the regions of philology. 

December, 1789 
My Dear Cunningham — Where are 

you ? And what are you doing ? Can you 
be that son of levity, who takes up a friend- 
ship as he takes up a fashion ; or, are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in 
the world, the victim of indolence, laden 
with fetters of ever-increasuig weight ? 

\Vliat strange beings we are 1 Since we 
nave a portion of conscious existence, 
equally capable of enjoying pleasure, hap- 
pniess, and rapture, or of suffering pain, 
wretchedness, and misery ; it is surely 
worthy of an mquiry whether there be not 
»uch a thing as a science of hfe; whether 



method, economy, and fertility of expedi- 
ents, be not applicable to enjojTnent; and 
whether there be not a want of dexterity 
in pleasure, which renders our little scantling 
of happiness still less; and a profusenesa, 
and intoxication in bliss, which leads to 
satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. There 
is not a doubt but that health, talents, 
character, decent competency, respectable 
friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
yet, do we not daily see those who enjoy 
many or all of these good things, contrive, 
notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others 
to whose lot few of them have fallen ? I 
believe one great source of this mistake or 
misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, 
with us called ambition, which goads us up 
the hill of life; not as we ascend other 
eminences, for the laudable curiosity of 
viewing an extended landscape, but, rather, 
for the dishonest pride of looking dowr 
on others of our fellow-creatures, seem 
ingly diminutive in humbler stations, &c 
&c. 

Sunday, February lith, 1790. 
God help me I I am now obliged to join 
Night to day, and Sunday to the week. 
If there be any truth in the orthodox faith 
of these churches, I am past re- 
demption, and, what is worse, to 

all eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's 
Four-fold State, Marshall on Sanctification., 
Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, &c. ; 
but, " there is no balm in Gilead, there is no 
physician there," for me; so I shall e'en 
turn Arminian, and trust to "Sincere though 
imperfect obedience." 

Tuesday, I6th. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented from 
the discussion of the knotty point at which 
I had just made a full stop. All my fears 
and cares are of this world : if there is 
another, an honest man has nothing to fear 
from it. I hate a man that wishes to be b 
deist ; but I fear, every fair, unprejudicec? 
inquirer must, in some degree, be a sceptic 
It IS not that there are any very staggering 
arguments against the immortality of man ; 
but, like electricity, phlogiston, &c., the 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we 
want data to go upon. One thing frightens 
me much : that we are to live for ever, 
seems too good news to be true. That we 
are to enter into a new scene of existence, 
where, exempt from want and pain, we shall 
enjoy ourselves and our friends without 
satiety or separation ; — how much should 




COREESPONDENCE OF hPRNS. 



I be indebted to any one who could fully 
assure me that tliis was certain! 

Aly time is once more expired. I will 
BTito to ilr. Cleghorn soon. God bless hiin 
and all his concerns ! And may all the 
powers that preside over conviviality and 
friendship be present with all their kindest 
influence, when the bearer of this, Mr. 
Syrae, and you meet ! I wish I could also 
make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! "V\1iatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are 
gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, 
whatsoever things are kind, think on these 
things, and think on. 

R. B. 



NO. CXCVI. 

TO MR. HILL. 
Ellisland, March 2nd, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland 
Friendly Society, it was resolved to augment 
their library by the following books, which 
you are to send us as soon as possible : — 
The INIirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, 
Man of the World (these, for my own sake, 
I wish to have by the first carrier), Knox's 
History of the Keformation ; Rae's History 
of the Rebellion in 1715 ; any good History 
of the Rebellion in 1745; A Display of 
the Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. 
Gib; Hervey's Meditations; Beveridge's 
Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson's 
Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to i\Ir. A. ]\Iasterton three or 
four montha ago, to pay some money he 
owed me into your hands, and lately, I 
wrote to you to the same purpose ; but I 
have heard from neither one nor other of 
you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned 
in my last, i want very nuich An Index to 
the Excise I^aws, or an Abridgement of all 
the Statutes now in force relative to the 
Excise, by Jellinger Symons ; I want three 
copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, 
cheap or dear, get it for me. An honest 
country neighbour of mine wants, too, a 
Family Bible, the larger the better, but 
second-handed, for he does not choose to 
give above ten shillings for the book. I 
want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
them up, second-lumded, or cheap, copies of 
Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, 
Dryden'i, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Van- 
burgh's, Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works 
of the more modern Macklin, Garrick, 
Fojte. Colman. or Sheridan. A good copy. 



too, of Moliere, in French, I mTich want 
Any other good dramatic authors hi thai 
language I want also; but comic authors 
chiefly, though I should wish to have 
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am ia 
no hurry for all, or any of these, but if you 
accidently meet with them very cheap, get 
them for me. (105) 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend? — and how 
is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if row and then not 
so elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, 
and sings as divinely as ever. My good 
wife, too, has a charming "wood-note wild;" 
now could we four . 

I am out of all patience with this vile 
world, for one thing. Mankind are by 
nature benevolent creatures, except in a few 
scoundrelly instances. I do not think that 
avarice of the good things we chance to 
have is born with us : but, we are placed 
here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, 
and poverty, and want, that we are inider a 
cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in 
order that we may exist! Still there are, 
in every age, a few souls, that all the wants 
and woes of life cannot debase to selfish- 
ness, or even to tiie necessary alloy of 
caution and prudence. If ever I am ia 
danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate 
myself on this side of my disposition and 
character. God knows, I am no saint ; I 
have a whole host of follies and sins to 
ansv>'er for ; but if I could, and I believe I 
do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all 
tears from all eyes. Adieu ! R. P. 



NO. CXCVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, April 10th, 1790. 

I HAVE just now, my ever-hono>ired 
friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in read- 
ing a paper of the Lounger. You kui.n' my 
national prejudices. I had often read and 
admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, 
and World ; but still, with a certain regret 
that they were so thoroughly and entirely 
English. Alas ! have I often said to myself,^ 
what are all the boasted advantages which 
my country reaps from the union, that can 
counterbalance the annihilation of her inde- 
pendence, and even her very name ! I often 
repeat that couplet of my favourite poe^ 
Goldsmith — 

States, of native liberty possest. 

Though very poor, may yet be very blest. 



TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 



369 



Notl ing can reconcile me to the common 
terms, English ambassador, English court, 
&c. And I Sim out of all patience to see 
that equivocal character, Hastings, im- 
peached by "the Commons of England." 
Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? 
i believe, on my conscience, such ideas as — 
" my country, her independence, her hon- 
our, the illustrious names that mark the 
history of my native land," &c. — I believe 
these, among your nien of the world, — men 
who, in fact, guide for the most part and 
govern our world, — are looked on as so many 
modilications of wrong-headedriess. They 
know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
rouse or lead tub rabble ; but for their 
own private use, with almost all the ohle 
ttatesmen that ever existed, or now exist, 
when tliey talk of right and wrong, they 
only mean proper and improper ; and their 
measure of conduct is not what they ought, 
but what they dare. For the truth of 
this, I shall not ransack the history of 
nations, but appeal to one of the ablest 
judges of men that ever lived — the cele- 
brated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man 
who could thoroughly control his vices 
whenever they interfered with his interests, 
Bnd who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as oft m. as it 
suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhojjian 
plan, the pi'rfect man; a man to lead 
nations. But are great abilities, complete 
without a flaw, and polished without a 
blemish, the standard of human excellence ? 
This is certainly the staunch opinion of men 
of the xoorld; but I call on honour, virtue, 
and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
loud negative ! However, tliis must be 
alloM ed, that, if you abstract frou> man the 
idea of an existence beyond the grave, then 
the true measure of human conduct is, 
"proper and improper; virtue and vice, as 
dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, 
of scarcely the same import and value to the 
world at large, as harmony and discord in 
the modifications of sound ; and a delicate 
sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, 
though it may sometimes give the possessor 
an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs 
of the herd, yet, considering the harsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill- 
luned state of being, it is odds but the 
*idividual would be as happy, and certaiidy 
would be as much respected, by the true 
judges of society as it would then stand, 
•without either a good ear or a good heart. 

^ou must know, I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I 
WD quite in raptures with them ; I should 



be glad to have your opinion of some of the 
papers. The one I have just read. Lounger 
No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than 
any thing I hav? read of a long time. (106) 
IMackenzie has l.2eu called the Addison o/ 
the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison 
would not be hurt at the comparison. If he 
has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as 
certainly outdoes him in the tender ami the 
pathetic. His Man of Feeling (but I am 
not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism) 
I estimate as tlie first performance in its 
kind I ever saw. From what book, moral 
or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to 
humanity and kindness, generosity and be- 
nevolence — in short, more of all that enno- 
bles the soul to herself, or endears her to 
others — than from the simple attecting tale 
of poor Ilarley? 

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into 
life. Do not you think, JNIadam, that among 
the fev/ favoured of Heaven in the structure 
of their minds (for such there certainly are), 
there may be a purity, a tenderness, a 
dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no 
use, nay, in some degree, absolutely dis- 
qualifying, for the truly important business 
of making a man's way into life ! If I am 
not much mistaken, ray gallant young friend, 
A******, is very much under these disquali- 
fications ; and, for the young females of a 
family I could mention, well may they excite 
parental solicitude, for I, a common ac- 
quaintance, or as my vanity will have it, a 
humble friend, have often trembled for a 
turn of mind which may render them emi- 
nently happy, or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses 
lately ; but as 1 have got the most hurried 
season of Excise business over, 1 hope to 
have more leisure to transcribe any thing 
that may show how much I have the honoJJT 
to be. Madam, yours, &c. H. B. 



NO. cxcvrii. 
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELU 

ElUsland, 1790. 

Sir — I shall not fail to wait on Captain 
Riddel to-night — I wish and pray that the 
goddess of justice herself would appear to- 
morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely 
to give them a word lq their ear that metca 



^0* 



S64 



CORKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



to the thief is injustice to the honest man. 
For my part, I have galloped over my ten 
parishes these four days, until this moment 
that I am just alighted, or rather, that my 
poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me 
down ; for the miserahle devil has been on 
his knees half a score of times within the 
last twenty miles, telling me, in his own 
way, " Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of 
a horse, on which thou hast ridden these 
many years ! " 

In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's 
wind, and almost broke my own neck, 
besides some injuries in a part that shall be 
nameless, owing to a hard-hearted stone of 
a saddle. I find that every offender has so 
many great men to espouse his cause, that I 
shall not be surprised if I am committed to 
the strong-hold of the law to-morrow for 
insolence to the dear friends of the gentle- 
men of the covnitry. I have the honour to 
be. Sir, your obliged and obedient humble 
E. B. 



NO. CXCIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Dumfries, Excise-Office, July 14«A, 1790. 

Sir — Coming into town this morning to 
attend my duty in this office, it being col- 
lection-day, I met with a gentleman who 
tells me he is on his way to Loudon ; so I 
take the opportunity of writing to you, as 
franking is at present under a temporary 
death. I shall have some snatches of leisure 
through the day, amid our horrid business 
and bustle, and I shall improve them as \Vell 
as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
• * * *, as miscellaneous as a newspaper, 
as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or 
as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause ; 
BB ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, 
or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
Mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 
circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it 
will put you to no expense of postage, I 
shall have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning 
you my thanks for your most valuable pre- 
sent, Zeliico. In fact, you are in some 
degree blameable for my neglect. You were 
pleased to express a wish for my opinion of 
the work, which so flattered me, that nothing 
less would serve my overweening fancy, than 
B formal criticism on the book, lu fact, I 
liive gravely planned a comparative view of 
«ou, Fielding, Richardson and Smollett, in 



your different qualities and mer.ts aa novd 
wTiters. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous 
vanity, and 1 may probably never bring the 
business to bear; but I am fond of the 
spirit young Jllihu shows in the book of 
Job — "And I said, I will also declare my 
opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy 
of the book \vith my annotations. I never 
take it up without at the same time taking 
my pencil, and marking with asterisks, 
parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an 
original thought, a nervous remark on life 
and manners, a remarkable, well-turned 
period, or a character sketched with un- 
common precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly 
writing out my " Comparative View," 1 
shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, 
such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman 
that horrid summons in the book of Rev© 
lation — -" That time shall be no more ! " 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If, indeed, I am 
indebted to the fair author for the book (107), 
and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated 
author of the other sex, I should certainly 
have written to the lady, with my grateful 
acknowledgments, and ,my own ideas of the 
comparative excellence of her pieces. I 
would do this last, not from any vanity of 
thinking that my remarks could be of much 
consequence to ^Irs. Smith, bat merely from 
my own feelings as aa author, doing as T 
would be doue by. R. B. 



NO. CO. 

TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TBACHER OP FRENCH, LONDOIf. 

Ellisland, July IGth, 1790. 

My dear Sir — I received a letter from 
you a long time ago, but, unfortunately, as it 
was in the time of my peregrinations and 
journeyings through Scotland, I mislaul or 
lost it, and, by consequence, your direction 
along with it. Luckily, my gO( d star 
brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy 
who, I understand is an acquaintance of 
yours : and by his means and mediation, I 
hope to replace that link which my un- 
fortunate negligence had so vnduckily broke 
in the chain of our correspoiuh^nce. I wa» 
the more vexed at the vile accident, as my 
brother William, a journeyman saddler, has 
been for some time in London, and wished 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 



863 



ibove hH thin^a for your dirention, that he 
mij^ht have paid his respects to his father's 
friend. 

His last address he sent to me was," Wm. 
Burns, it Mr. Barljer's, saddler, No. 181, 
Strand ' I writ hira by Mr. Kennedy, but 
neiclected to ask hiin for your address ; so, 
if you find a spare half minute, please let 
my brother know by a card where and when 
he will find you, and the poor fellow will 
joyfully wait on you, as one of the few 
sui-viviug friends of the man whose name, 
and Christian name too, he has the honour 
to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of " hair- 
breath 'scapes in th' imminent deadly 
breach," with all the eventful history of a 
life, the early years of which owed so much 
to your kind tutorage ; but this at an hour 
of leisure. Jly kindest compliments to Mrs. 
Murdoch, and family. I. am ever, my dear 
Sir, youi obliged friend, R. B. (108) 



MO. CCI. 



TO MR. M'MURDC. 

EUisland, August 2nd, 1790. 

Sir, — Now, that you are over with the 
sirens of Flattery, the harpies of Corruption, 
and the furies of Ambition — these infernal 
deities, that on aU sides, and in all parties, 
preside over the villainous business of poli- 
tics — permit a rustic muse of your acquain- 
tance to do her best to soothe you with a 
Bong. 

You knevr Henderson — I have not flat- 
tered his memory. I have the honour to 
be, Sir, your obhged humble servant, 

R. B 



BO. ecu. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

August 8th, 1790. 

Dear Madam — After a long day's toil, 
plague and care, 1 sit down to write to you. 
Ask me not why 1 have delayed it so long? 
It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty 
other things; in short, to anything but 
forgetfulness of la i^his aimahle de son svxe. 
By the bye, you are indel)ted your best 
courtesy to me for this lasi complimetit, as 
1 pay it from my sincere conviction of 



its truth — a quality rather rare in compli- 
ments of these grinning, bowing, scraping 
times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a 
little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been 
bruised to-day I A ci-devant friend of mine, 
and an intimate acquaintance of yours, hai 
given my feelings a wound that I perceivt 
will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. Ha 
lias wounded my pride. &. B. 



NO. CCIII. 



TO MB. CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, August 2>th, 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and evei 
dear friend, my seeming negligence. You 
cannot sit dowu and fancy the busy life 1 
lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some 
thoughts of a country grannum at a family 
chrisiening — a bride on the market-day 
before her marriage, or a tavern-keeper at 
an election dinner ; but the resemblance 
that hits ray fancy best is, that blackguard 
miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a 
roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he 
may devour. However, tossed about as I 
am, if I choose (and who would not choose?) 
to bind down with the crampets of atten- 
tiou the brazen foundation of integrity, I 
may rear up the superstructure of inde- 
pendence, and from its daring turrets bid 
defiance to the storms of fate. And ia 
not this a " consummation devoutly to be 
wished? " 
Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye 1 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare. 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the 
sky! 

Are not these noble verses? They are 
the introduction of Smollett's Ode to In- 
dependence: if you have not seen the poem, 
I will send it to you. How wretched is the 
man that hangs on by the favours of the 
great! To shrink from every dignity of 
man, at the approach of a lordly piece of 
self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel 
glitter and stately hauteur, is but a creaijure 
formed as thou art — and perhaps not 
so well formed as thou art — came into the 
world a puling infant as though didst, and 
must go out of it, as all men must, a naked 
corae. K. B. (109) 



S66 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. CCIV. 

TO D^. ANDERSON 

Sir — I am much indebted to ny worthy 
I'riend, Dr. Blacklock, for introducing me to 
a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; 
but when you do rae the honour to ask my 
assistance in your proposed publication, 
alas. Sir ! you might as well think to cheapen 
a little honesty at the sign of an advocate's 
wig, or humility under the Geneva band. 
I am a miserable hurried devii, worn to the 
marrow in the friction of holding the noses 
of the poor publicans to the grindstone of 
the Excise ! and, like Milton's Satan, for 
private reasons, am forced 
To do what yet tJtough damn'd I would abhor. 
— and, except a couplet or two of honest 
execration • • » • 

S. B. (110) 



NO. CCV. 

TO CRAUFORD TAIT, Eso, 

EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, October \Uh, 1790. 

Dear Sir — Allow me to introduce to 
your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. Wm. Dun- 
can, a friend of mine, whom I have long 
known and long loved. His father, whose 
only son he is, has a decent little property 
111 Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to 
the law, in which department he comes up 
an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
give you my friend's character in two words : 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and 
more than enough, for common life ; as to 
his heart, when nature had fashioned the 
kindly clay that composes it, she said, " I 
can no more." 

You, ray good Sir, were bom under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well 
know, can enter into the feelings of the 
young man who goes into life with the lau- 
dable ambition to do something, and to be 
something, among his fellow-creatures, but 
whom the consciousness of friendless obscu- 
rity presses to the earth, and wounds to the 
soul. 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against 
him. That independent spirit, and that 
ingenuous modesty, qualities inseparable from 
a noble mind, are, with the million, circum- 
stances not a little disqualifying. What 
pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and 
the liapoy, by their notice and patronage. 



to brighten the countenance and gKd tlw 
heart of such depressed j outh ! 1 am not 
80 angry with mankind for their deaf eco- 
nomy of the purse : thf goods of this world 
cannot be divided without being lessened — ■ 
but why be a niggard of that which bestows 
bliss on a fellow-creatuie, yet takes nothing 
from our own means of eujoymeut? W< 
wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own 
better fortune, and turn away our eyes, 
lest the wants and woes of our brother 
mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of 
our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at ask- 
ing a favour. That iudirect address, that 
insinuating implication, which, without any 
positive request, plainly expresses your wish, 
is a talent not to be acquired at a plough- 
tail. Tell me then, for you can, in what 
periphrasis of language, in what circumvo- 
lution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not 
conceal, this plain story — " My dear Mr. 
Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have 
the pleasure of introducing to you, is a 
young lad of your own profession, and a 
gentleman of much modesty and great 
worth. Perhaps, it may be in your power 
to assist him in the, to liim, important con- 
sideration of getting a place, but, at all 
events, your notice and acquaintance will be 
a very great acquisition to him ; and I dare 
pledge myself, that he will never disgrace 
your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at 
such a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the 
usual way of calculating these matters, more 
than our acquaintance entitles me to ; but 
my answer is short : — of all the men at your 
time of life, whom I knew in Edinburgh, 
you are the most accessible on the side oa 
which I have assailed you. You are very 
much altered, indeed, from what you were 
when I knew you, if generosity point the 
path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest 
I believe you are still a well-wisher, I am 
here, breathing at all tunes, thinkitg some- 
times, and rhyming now and then Sytty 
situation has its share of the cares and 
pains of life, and my situation, I am per- 
suaded, has a full ordinary allowance of ita 
pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and 
Miss Tait. If you have an opportunity, 
please remember me in the solemn-Ieague- 
and-covenant of friendship to Mrs. Lewit 
Hay. I am a wretch for not writing her; 
but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation 
iu that way, that my conscience lies in aj 



TOMllS. DUNLOP. 



387 



feosom with scarce the sensibility of an 
oyster in its shell. Where is Lady M'Ken- 
zie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I 
likewise beg leave to trouble you with 
compliments to Mr. Wra. Hamilton, Mrs. 
Hamilton, and family, and Mrs. Chalmers, 
when you are in that comitry. Should 
you meet with Miss Nimmo, please re- 
vicmber me kindly to her. 

K. B. 



MO. can. 

TO DR. BLA.CKLOCK. 

Ellidand, 1790. 

Dear Sir — Whether in the way of my 
trade, I can be of auy service to the Rev. 
Dortor, is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax's 
shield consisted, 1 thiuk, of seven bull hides, 
and a plate of brass, which, altogether, set 
Hector's utmost force at deliance. Alas 1 I 
am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's 
foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, 
malevolence, self-conceit, euvy^all strongly 
bound in a massy frame of brazen impu- 
dence. Good God, Sir ! to such a shield, 
humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire 
the pop-gun of a school-boy. Creation-dis- 
gracing scelerats such as they, God only 
can mend, and the devil only can punish. In 
the comprehensive way of Caligula, I wish 
they all had but one neck. I feel impotent 
as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! Oh, 
for a withering curse to blast the germens of 
their wicked machinations. Oh, for a poison- 
ous tornado, winged from the torrid zone of 
Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop of 
tbeir villanous couthvancea to the lowest 
luU. R.B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. (Ill) 

Ellisland, November, 1790. 

• Aft cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is 
|0od news from a far comitry." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good 
news from you, in return for the many 
tidings of sorrow which I have received. In 
this instance, I most cordially obey the apos- 
tle — " Rejoice with tliem that do rejoice." — 
For me to sing for joy, is no new thing ; but 



to preach for joy, as I have done in the com- 
mencement of this epistle, is a pitch of ex- 
travagant rapture to which I never roM 
before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for 
joy. How could such a mercurial creature 
as a poet lumpishly keep his seat, on the 
receipt of the best news from his best friend. 
I seized ray gilt-headed "Wangee rod, an in- 
strument indispensably necessary, in my 
left hand, in the moment af inspiration and 
rapture; and stride, stride — quick and 
quicker — out skipt I among the broomy 
banks of Nith to muse over my joy by 
retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more ele- 
gant, but not a more sincere compliment to 
the sweet httle fellow, than I, extempore 
almost, poured out to him in the following 
Terses : — 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 
May He, who gives the rain to pom. 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 
May He, the friend of woe and want, 

Who heals life's various stounds. 
Protect and guard the mother-plant, 

And heal lier cruel wounds ! 
But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 

Fair on the summer morn ; 
Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 
Best be thy bloom, thou lovelj ^xst, 

Unscath'd by ruffiac hasd ! 
And from thee mat^j a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land 1 

I am much flattered by your approbatio« 
of my " Tarn o' Shanter," which you express 
in your former letter ; though, by the bye, 
you load me in that said letter with accusa- 
tions heavy and many, to all which I plead 
not guilty! Your book is, I hear, on the 
road to reach me. As to printing of poetry, 
when you prepare it for the press, you have 
only to spell it right, and place the capital 
letters pnperly — as to the punctuation, the 

I printers do that themselves. 

I I have a copy of " Tam o' Shanter" ready 

I to send you by the tirst opportuuity — it ii 

r too heavy to send by post. 



868 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



I heard of Mr. Corbet (112) lately. He, 
ill consequence of your recomraendatiou, is 
most zealous to serve me. Please favour me 
ioOQ with an account of your good folks ; if 
Mrs. 11. is recovering, and the young gentle- 
man doing weU. E. B. 



NO. CCTIII. 



TO CHARLES SHARPE, Esa., 



or HODDAM, UNDER A 
SIGNATURK, ENCLOSING 



FICTITIOUS 
. BALLA1>. 

1791. 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
and fortune, and I am a poor devil — you are 
a feather in the cap of Society, and I am a 
very hobnad in his shoes ; yet I have the 
honour to belong to the same family with 
you, and on that score I now address you. 
You will, perhaps, suspect that 1 am going to 
claim affinity with the ancient and honour- 
able house of Kirkpatrick. No, no. Sir ; I 
cannot indeed be properly said to belong to 
any house, or even any province or kingdom ; 
as my mother, who for many years was 
spouse to a inarching regiment, gave me into 
this bad world, aboard the packet-boat, 
somewhere between Donaghadee and Port- 
patrick. By our common family, I mean. 
Sir, the family of the muses. I am a fiddler 
and a poet ; and you, 1 am told, play an ex- 
quisite violin, and have a standard taste in 
the belles lettres. The other day, a brother 
catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your 
composition. If I was pleased with the 
tune, 1 was in raptures with the title you 
have given it; and, taking up the idea, I 
have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
Will you allow me. Sir, to present you them, 
as the dearest offering that a misbegotten 
sou of poverty and rhyme has to give ! I 
have a longing to take you by the hand and 
unburden my heart by saying, — "Sir, I 
honour you as a man who supports the dig- 
nity of human nature, amid an age when 
frivolity and avarice have, between them, de- 
based us below the brutes that perish ! " 
But, alas. Sir 1 to me you are unapproach- 
able. It ia true, the muses baptised me in 
Castalian streams ; but the thoughtless 
Ifipsies forgot to give me a name. As the 
sex have served many a good fellow, the 
Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure; 
but, bewitcliing jades ! they have beggared 
ine. Would they but spare me a little of 
timt owt-lineu! w>;re it only to put it in 



my power to say that I have a shirt on mj 

back ! But the idle wenches, like Solomon « 
lilies, " they toil not, neither do they spin ;" 
so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of 
a cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my 
naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to 
keep together their many-coloured fragments. 
As to the affair of shoes, I have given that 
up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, 
from town to town, and on your stony- 
hearted turnpikes too, are what not even the 
hide of Job's behemoth could bear. The 
coat on my back is no more ; I shall not 
speak evil of the dead. It would be equally 
unhandsome and ungrateful to find fault with 
my old surtout, which so kindly supplies 
and conceals the want of that coat. My hat, 
indeed, is a great favourite ; and though I 
got it literally for an old song, I would not 
exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I 
was, during several years a kind of factotum 
servant to a country clergyman, where I 
picked up a good many scraps of learning, 
particularly in some branches of the mathe- 
matics. Whenever I feel inclined to rest 
myself on my way, I take my seat under a 
hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one 
side, and ray fiddle-case on the other, and, 
placing my hat between my legs, I can by 
means of its brim, or rather brims, go 
through the whole doctrine of the conic 
sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, aa 
if I would interest your pity. Fortune has 
so much forsaken me, that she has taught me 
to hve without her ; and, amid all my rags 
and poverty, I am as independent, and much 
more happy, than a monarch of the world. 
According to the hackneyed metaphor, I 
value the several actors in the great drama 
of life, simply as they act their parts. I can 
look on a worthless fellow of a duke with 
unqualified contempt, and can regard aa 
honest scavenger with sincere respect. Aa 
you. Sir, go through your role with such dis- 
tinguished merit, permit me to make one in 
the chorus of universal applause, and assure 
you, that, with the highest respect, 1 liave 
the honour to be, &c. (1 1 3) — • — ♦ 



NO. CCIX. 

TO lADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

Ellisland, Wth January, 1791. 

My Lady — Nothing less than the un- 
lucky accident of having lately broken ray 
right arm, could have prevented me, tht 



^ 






» 



iii:i:,iiii;ii!iiiii!iiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiiii;iiiiiiiiih!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 







TO MR. PETER HILL 



3«5S 



moment I received ycur ladyship's elegant 
present (1 14) by Mrs. Miller, from returning 
you my warmest and most grateful acknow- 
leflgraents. I assure your ladyship, I shall 
set it apart — the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of 
poetic composition, the box shall be my in- 
spiring genius. When I wotild breathe the 
coin[irehensive wish of benevolence for the 
hiq piness of others, I shall recollect your 
ladyship ; when I would interest my fancy 
in the distresses incident to humanity, I 
shall remember the unfortunate Marv 

R. B. 



TO T\^L7JAM DUNBAR, W.S. 
Ellisland January Ylth, 1791. 

I AM not going to Elysium, most noble 
colonel (115), but am still here in this 
sublunary world, serving my God by propa- 
gating his image, and honouring my king 
by begetting him loyal subjects. 

Many happy returns of the season await 
my friend. May tiie thorns of care never 
beset his path ! May peace be an inmate 
of his bosom, and rapture a frequent 
visitor of his soul ! May the blood-hounds 
of misfortune never track his steps, nor the 
screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling ! 
May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure 
number thy days, thou friend of the bard ! 
"Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and 
cursed be he that curseth thee ! " 

As a further proof that I am still in the 
rand of existence, I send you a poem, the 
latest I have composed. I have a particular 
reason for wishing you only to show it to 
select friends, should you think it worthy a 
friend's perusal; but if, at your first leisure 
hour, you will favour me with your opinion 
of, and strictures on the performance, it 
will be an additional obligation on, dear 
Sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, 
R. B. 



NO. CCXI. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, \anuary nth, 1791, 

TatvE these two guineas, and place them 
over agamst that damned account of yours, 
which has gagg;d ray mouth these five oy 

B B 



six months! I can bs little write good 
things as apologies to a man I owe money 
to. Oh the supreme curse of making three 
guineas do the business of five ! Not all the 
labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' 
three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were 
such an hisuperable business, such an 
infernal task ! I Poverty, thou half-sister of 
death, thou cousin-german of hell [--where 
shall I find force of execration equal to the 
amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by 
thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
the practice of every virtue, laden with years 
and wretchedness, implores a little, little 
aid to support his existence, from a stony- 
hearted son ol Man\mon, whose sun of 
prosperity neve knew a cloud, and is by 
him denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, 
the man of sentiment, whose heart glows 
with independence, and melts with sensi- 
bility, inwardly pines under the neglect, or 
writhes, in bitterness of soul, under the 
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, 
whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the 
tables of the fashionable and polite, must 
see, in suiferiug silence, his remark neg- 
lected, and Ins person despised, while 
shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at 
wit, shall meet with countenance and ap- 
plause. Nor, is it only the family of worth 
that have reason to complain of thee :— the 
children of folly and vice, though in comraoa 
with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally 
under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of 
unfortunate disposition and neglected educa- 
tion, is condemned as a fool for his dis- 
sipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies as usual bring liim 
to want ; and when his unprincipled neces- 
sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is 
abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the 
justice of his country. But, far otherwise is 
the lot of the man of family and fortune. — 
His early follies and extravagance are 
spirit and tire ; — his consequent wants are 
the erabarrasments of an honest fellow ; 
and when, to remedy the matter, he luis 
gamed a legal commission to plunder distant 
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he 
returns, perhaps, laden with the spoil of 
rapine and murder; lives wicked and res- 
pected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. 
Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman I 
—the needy prostitute, who has shivered at 
the corner of the street, waiting to earn the 
wages of casual prostitvitiou, is left neglected 
and insulted, ridden down by the chariot 
wheelsojf the coroneted rip, hurrying on to 
the guilty assignation — she whos withuuJ 




iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'iiiiiiiiiiiii;iii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin:Tiihiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiii!i 



S70 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



the sstne necessities to plead, riots nightly 
in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they 
please; but execration is to the mh\d what 
phlebotomy is to the body — the vital sluices 
of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
respective evacuations. R. B. 



KO. CCXII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

ElUsland Jan. 2M, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to 
you, my dear friend ! As many of the good 
things of this life, as is consistent witli the 
usual mixture of good and evil in the cup of 
being I 

I have just finished a poem ("Tarn o' Shan- 
ter"), which you will receive enclosed. It is 
my first essay in the way of tales. 

1 have these several months been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accom- 
plished M iss Burnet. I have got, and can 
get, no farther than the following fragment, 
on which please give me your strictures. In 
all khids of poetic composition, I set great 
store by your opinion ; but in sentimental 
verses, in the poetry of the heart, no Roman 
Catholic ever set more value on the infallibi- 
lity of the Holy Father, than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses. 

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET 
OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 
As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
Aa that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet 
low. — &c. 



Lrt me hear from you soon. 



Adieu ! 
IL B. 



NO. CCXIII. 



TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. (116) 

Ellisland, February 1791. 
BiR — Nothing less than the unfortiuiate 
•ccident I have met with could have pre- 
vented my grateful acknowledgments for 
your letter. His own favourite poem, and 
that an essay in the walk of the muses en- 
tiiely new to him, where consequently his 
hopes and fears were on the most anxious 
alarm for his success in the attempt — to 
have that poe^u s<r much appliuded by cue 



of the first judges, wag the most delirion* 

vibration that ever thrilled along the heart- 
strings of a poor poet However, Provi- 
dence, to keep up the proper proportion ni 
evil with the good, which it seems is necest- 
sary in this sublunary state, though.t proper 
to check my exultation by a very serious 
misfortune. A day or two after I received 
your letter, my horse came down with me 
and broke my right arm. As this is the 
first service my arm has done me since its 
disaster, I find myself unable to do mora 
than just, in general terms, thank you for 
this additional instance of your patronag? 
and friendship. As to the faults you d;t. 
tected in the jiiece, they are truly there ; oije 
of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest. I 
shall cut out ; as to the falling oil' in the 
catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, 
it cannot easily be remedied. Your appro- 
bation. Sir, has given me such additional 
spirits to persevere in this species of poetic 
composition, that I am already revolving two 
or three stories in my fancy. If 1 can bring 
these floating ideas to bear any kind of em- 
bodied form, it will give me an additional 
opportunity of assuring you how much 1 
have the honour to be, &c. R. B, 



TO 



Ellisland, 1791. 



Dear Sir — ^I am exceedingly to blame 
in not writing you long ago ; but the 
truth is, that i am the most indolent of all 
human beings, and when I matriculate in 
the Herald's Office, I intend that my sup- 
porters shall be two sloths, my crest a slow- 
worm, and the motto, " Deil take the for- 
most." So much by way of apology fof 
not thanking you sooner for your kind ex- 
ecution of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem; but 
somehow or other it found its way into the 
public papers, where you must have seen 
it. I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
U. B. 



iro. ccxY. 

TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. (117) 

Ellisland, 1791, 

Reverend Sir — Why did you, my deal 
Sff, write to me in such a hesitathig styles 







^(D^ 




TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 



371 



ea the business of jioor Bruce? Don't I 
know, and have I not felt, tlie many ills, the 
peculiai ills, that poetic flesh is heir to? 
You shall have j'our choice of all the un- 
published poems I have; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this 
moment), I should have directly put you 
out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, 
that some prefatory advertisement in the 
book, as well as the subscription bills, may 
bear, that the publication is solely for the 
benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put 
it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or 
malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share 
in the work from mercenary motives. Nor 
need you give me credit for any remarkable 
generosity in my part of the business. I 
have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, 
follies, and backslidings (any body but my- 
self might perhaps give some of them a 
worse appellation), that by way of some 
balance, however trifling, in the account, 
I am fain to do any good that occurs in my 
»ery limited power to a fellow creature, just 
for the sellish purpose of clearing a little 
the vtsta of ret»03pection. R. B 



NO. CCXTI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Feb. 7th, 1791. 

When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, 
not from my horse, but with my horse, I 
have been a cripple some time, and that this 
is the first day my arm and hand have been 
able to serve me in writing, you will allow 
that it is too good an apology for my seem- 
ingly ungrateful silence. I am now getting 
better, and am able to rhyme a little, which 
implies some tolerable ease, as I cannot think 
that the most poetic genius is able to com- 
pose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
you my having an idea of composing an 
elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. 
1 had the honour of being pretty well ac- 
quainted with her, and have seldom felt so 
much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 
I heard that so amiable and accomplished a 
piece of God's work was no more. I have, 
RS yet, gone no farther than the following 
fragment, of which please let me have your 
opinion. You know that elegy is a subject 
BO much exhausted, that any new idea on 
the btisintiss is not to be CKpected : 'tis well 



if we can place an old idea in a new light 
How far I have succeeded as to this laat, yoa 
will judge from what follows : — ♦ • 

I have proceeded no farther. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remem. 
brance of your godson, came safe. This last 
Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have for a long time seen. 
He is now seventeen months old, has the 
small-pox and measles over, has cut several 
teeth, and never had a grain of doctors' 
drugs in his bowels. 

1 am truly happy to hear that the " little 
flow'ret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
that the "mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well may her 
" cruel wounds" be healed I I have written 
thus fiir with a good deal of difficulty. 
When I get a little abler, you shall heal 
farther from. Madam, yours, B» B. 



NO. CCXTH. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

Ellisland, near Dumfriet, 
Feb. Uth, 1791. ' 
Sir — ^You must, by this time, have set 
me dovra as one of the most ungrateful of 
men. Y'ou did me the honour to present 
me with a book, which does honour to 
science and the intellectual powers of man, 
and I have not even so much as acknow- 
ledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you 
yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I 
was by your telling me that you wished to 
have my opinion of the work, the old 
spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to 
ponder over the performance with the look- 
out of a critic, and to draw up, forsooth, a 
deep learned digest of strictures on a com- 
position, of which, in fact, until 1 read the 
book, I did not even know the first prin- 
ciples. 1 own. Sir, that at first glance 
several of your propositions startled me as 
paradoxical. That the martial clangor of a 
trumpet had something in it vastly mora 
grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twini;le 
twangle of a Jew's harp : that the ili licata 
flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-bin wii 
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and 
that from something innate and iudepeudeut 



S73 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of all associations of ideas — these I had set 
down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until 
perusing your book shook my faith. In 
short. Sir, except Euclid's Elements of 
Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel 
by my father's fireside, in the winter even- 
ings of the first season I held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a 
quantum of information, and added so much 
to my stock of ideas, as your "Essays on 
the Principles of Taste." One tiling. Sir, 
you must forgive my mentioning as an 
uncommon merit in the work — I mean the 
language. To clothe abstract philosophy in 
elegance of style sounds something like a 
contradiction in terms ; but you have con- 
vinced me that they are quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of 
my late composition. The one in print is 
my first essay in the way of teUing a tale. 
I am. Sir, && R. B. (118) 



HO. CCXVIII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

ElUsland, Feb. 28th, 1791. 

1 JO not know, Sir, whether you are a 
subscriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
land. If you are, the enclosed poem will 
not be altogether new to you. Captain 
Grose did me the favour to send me a 
dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which 
ibis is one. Should you have read the piece 
before, still this will answer the principal 
end I have in view — it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your 
poodness to the rustic bard ; and also of 
shuwing you, that the abiUties you have 
been pleased to commend and patronise are 
still employed in the way you wish. 

The Elei)!/ on Captain Henderson is a 
tribute to the memory of a man I loved 
much. Poets have in this the same advan- 
tage as Roman Catholics; they can be of 
service to their friends after they have 
passed that bourne where all other kindness 
ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, 
either the one or the other be of any real 
service to the dead, is, 1 fear, very proble- 
matical, but I am sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living . and as a very 
orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture, 
•ays, " whatsoever is not of faith is sin ;" 
so eay I, whatsoever is not detrimental to 
society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of 



God, ■Ihe giver of all good things, and on«fh1 
to be received and enjoyed by his creatures 
with thankful delight. As almost all my 
religious tenets originate from my heart, I 
am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I 
can still keep up a tender intercourse with 
the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly 
beloved mistress, who is gone to the world 
of spirits. 

The ballad on Q,ueen Mary was begim 
while I was busy with Percy's Reliques of 
English Poetry. By the way, how much is 
every honest heart, which has a tincture of 
Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! 
'Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal 
gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory 
I should have been mortified to the ground 
if you had not. 

I have just read over once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my 
pencil, as I went along, every passage that 
pleased me particularly above the rest ; and 
one or two, which, with humble deference, I 
am disposed to think unequal to the merits 
of the book. I have sometimes thought to 
transcribe these marked passages, or at least 
so much of them as to point where they are, 
and send them to you. Original strokes 
that strongly depict the human heart, is 
your and Fieldnig's province, beyond any 
other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son indeed might, perhaps, be excepted ; but 
unhappily, his dramatis persona are beings 
of another world; and however they may 
captivate the inexperienced, romantic fancy 
of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in propor- 
tion as we have made human nature our 
study, dissatisfy our riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, 
a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself 
ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. 
I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of supervisor- 
ship by seniority. I have had an immense 
loss in the death of the Earl of Glencaini, 
the patron from whom all my fame and 
fortune took its rise. Independent of my 
grateful attachment to him, which was 
indeed so strong that it pervaded my very 
soul, and was entwined with the thread of 
my existence : so soon as the prince's friends 
had got in (and every dog you know has his 
day), my getting forward in the Excise would 
have been an easier business than otherwise 
it will be. Though this was a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished, yet, thank 
Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and 
as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I 



TO MR. CTNNINGHAM. 



373 



£8Tinot place them on as high an elevation in 
life as 1 could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
so much by the Disposer of events as to see 
that period, fix them on as broad and inde- 
pendent a basis as possible. Among the 
many wise adages which have been treasured 
up by o'lr Scottish ancestors, this is one of 
the best — Better be the head o' the com- 
monalty, than the tail o' the gentry. 

But 1 am got on a subject which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of con- 
sequence to you ; so I shall give you a short 
poem on the other page, and close this with 
assuring you how sincerely I have the honour 
to be, yours, &c. R. B. 



NO. ccxix. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

OF FINTKY. 

Ellisland, 1791. 

Madam — ^Wliether it is that the story of 
aur Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar 
effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I 
have in the enclosed ballad succeeded beyond 
my usual poetic success, I know not ; but it 
has pleased me beyond any effort of my 
muse for a good while pa>t ; on that accor.nt, 
I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, 
the purity of ray motives may be suspected. 
I am already deeply indebted to Mr. Graham's 
goodness ; and what, in the usual ways of 
men, is of infinitely greater importance, 
Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost 
importance in time to come. I was born a 
poor dog ; and, however I may occasionally 
pick a better bone than I used to do, I know 
I must live and die poor : but 1 will indulge 
tlie flattering faith that my poetry will con- 
siderably outlive my poverty ; and without 
any fustian affectation of spirit, I can pro- 
mise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary 
craving of the latter shall ever make me do 
any thing injurious to the honest fame of 
the former. Whatever may be my failings — 
for failings are a part of human nature — may 
they ever be those of a generous heart and 
an independent mind ! It is no fault of 
mine that I was born to dependence, nor is 
it JNIr. Graham's chiefest praise that he can 
command influence : but it is his merit to 
bestow, not only with the kindness of a 
brother, but with the politeness of a gentle- 
man ; and I trust it shall be mine to receive 
with thankfulness, and remember A'ith un- 
iimiuished gratitude. R. B. 



NO. CCXX, 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, March \2th, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece be worth youi 
strictures, let me have them. For my own 
part, a thing that I have just composed 
always appears through a double portion of 
that partial medium in which an author will 
ever view his own works. I believe, ia 
p:eueral, novelty has something in it that 
niebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently 
dissipates and fumes away like other intoxi- 
cation, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, 
with an aching heart. A striking instance 
of this might be adduced, in the revolution 
of many a hymeneal honey-moon. But lest 
I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude on the odice of my parish priest, I 
shall fill up the page in my o\vn way, and 
give you another song of my late composition, 
which will appear perhaps in Johnson's 
work, as well as tiie former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air 
"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
hame." AVhen political combustion ceases 
to be the object of princes and patriots, it 
then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of 
historians and poets. 

" By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it w«« 

grey; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame," &c. 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit 
your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear 
friend, how much you would oblige me, if, 
by the charms of your delightful voice, you 
would give my honest etfusion to " the 
memory of joys that are past," to the few 
friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. 
But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock 
has intimated the near approach of 

" That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 
stane, ' 

So, good night t» you '. Sound be your 
sleep, and delectable your dreams! A-propoi, 
how do you like this thought in a ballad I 
have just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I ga/? to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my sliuaben 
may Oe ; 
Far. far in the west is he 1 loe best. 



374 



CORRESPONDENCE OE ■BTTRNS. 



The lad that is dear to my babie and 
me! 

Good night ouce more, and God bless 
you! R- B. 



NO. CCXXI. 

TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL (119), 

FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 

ElUsland, March \9tli, 1791. 

My Dear Sir — I have taken the liberty 
to frank this letter to yon, as it encloses an 
idle poem of mine, which I send you; and, 
God knows, you may perhaps pay dear 
"uough for it, if you read it througli. Not 
that this is my own opinion : but the 
author, by the time he has composed and 
corrected his work, has quite pored away 
all his powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess, from my own heart, 
what you ha^'e felt on a late most melan- 
choly event. God knows what I have 
suffered at the loss of my best friend, my 
first and dearest patron and benefactor ; tlie 
man to whom I owe all that I am and have ! 
I am gone into mourning for him, and with 
more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, 
who, by nature's ties, ought to feel on the 
occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you, 
uideed, to let me know the news of the 
noble famdy, how the poor mother and the 
two sisters support their loss. I had a 
packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to 
Lady Betty, wlieu I saw the fatal tidings 
in the newspaper. I see, by the same 
channel, that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron are designed to be brought 
to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble 
you to let me know privately before the day 
of interment, that I may cross the comitry, 
and steal among the crowd, to pay a iear 
to the last sight of my ever revered bene- 
factor! It will oblige me beyond expres- 
■ion. K B. 



HO. CCXXII. 

TO MR3. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, April Wth, 1791. 
1 AM once more able, ray honoured 
Ifiend, *.o return you with my own hand, 
thanks for the many instances of your 



friendship, and particularly for year kind 
anxiety in this last disaster that my evil 
genius had in store for me. However, life 
is chequered — ^joy and sorrow — for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns mada 
me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, 
but not so handsome as your godson was 
at this time of life. Indeed, I look on your 
little namesake to be my chef d'ceuvre in 
that species of manufacture, as I look on 
" Tam o' Shanter " to be my standard per- 
formance in the poetical line. "Ks true, 
both the one and the other discover a spice 
of roguish waggery, that might perhaps be 
as well spared ; but then they also show, in 
my opinion, a force of genius, and a finish- 
ing polish, that I despair of ever excelling. 
Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid 
as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as 
a reaper from the corn-ridge. That is th* 
peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, 
sprightly damsels, that are bred among the 
hay and heather. (120) We cannot hope 
for that highly polished mind, that charming 
delicacy of soul, which is found among tlie 
female world in the more elevated stations 
of life, and which is certainly by far the 
most bewitching charm in the famous cestus 
of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable 
treasure, that where it can be had in its 
native heavenly purity, unstained by some 
one or other of the many shades of affect- 
tion, and unalloyed by some one or other of 
the many species of caprice, I declare to 
Heaven I shoidd think it cheaply purchased 
at the expense of every other earthly good ! 
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
extremely rare in any station and rank of 
life, and totally denied to such an humble 
one as mine, we meaner mortals must put 
up with the next rank of female excellence ; 
as fine a figure and face we can produce as 
any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native 
grace ; unaffected modesty and unsullied 
purity ; nature's mother-wit, and the rudi- 
Bients of taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsus- 
picious of, because unacquainted \vith, the 
crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disin- 
genuous world ; and the dearest charm of all 
the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, 
and a generous warmth of heart, grateful 
I for love on our part, and ardently glowing 
with a more than equal returu ; these, with 
a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constitu- 
tion, which your higher ranks can scarcely 
ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely 
woman in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm 
has yet made. Do let me hear, \y first post, 
how rlier ji'-f't Monsieur (121) comes on 



TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 



with his small-pox. May Almighty goodness 
preserve aud restore him ! R. B. 



NO. CCXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

June nth, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunning- 
bam, in belialf of the gentleman who waits 
on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of 
Moffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is 
at present suffering severely under the perse- 
cution of one or two po^verful individuals of 
his employers. He is accused of harshness 
to boys that were placed under his care. 
God help the teacher, if a man of sensihility 
and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, 
when a booby father presents him with his 
booby son, and insists on lighting up the 
rays of science in a fellow's head whose 
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any 
other way than a positive fracture with a 
cudgel — a fellow, whom, in fact, it savours of 
imi)iety to attempt making a scholar of, as 
he has been marked a blockhead in the book 
of fate, at the Ahuighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat-school are the 
ministers, magistrates, and town-council of 
Edinburgh, and as the business comes now 
before them, let me beg my dearest friend to 
do everything in his power to serve the in- 
terests of a man of genius and worth, and a 
man whom I particularly respect and esteem. 
Yoii know some good fellows amou": the ma- 
gistracy and council, but particularly you 
have much to say with a revwend gentle- 
man, to whom you have the honour of being 
Tery nearly related, and whom this country 
and age have had the honour to produce. I 
need not name the historian of Charles V. 
(122) I tell him, through the medium of his 
nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the cause 
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is 
falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. 

God help the children of dependence ! 
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, aud 
too often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, re- 
ceived by their friends with disrespect and 
reproach, urtder the thin disguise of cold 
civdity and humiliating advice. Oh I to be 
a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his 
independence, amid the solitary wilds of his 
deserts, rather than in civdized life helplessly 
to tremble for a subsistence, precarious as 
the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
man has his virtues, and no maa it without 

83 



37fi 



his failings ; and curse on that privileged 
plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the 
hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the 
helping hand, without, at the same time, 
pointing out those failings, and apportioning 
them their share in procuring my present 
distress. My friends, for such the world 
calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, 
pass by my virtues if you please, but do, 
also, spare my fillies — the first will witness 
in my breast for themselves, and the last 
will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind 
without you. And since deviating more or 
less from the paths of propriety and recti- 
tude must be incident to human nature, do 
thoti. Fortune, put it in my power, always 
from myself, and of myself, to bear the con- 
sequence of those errors 1 I do not want to 
be independent that I may sin, but I want to 
be indepcudent in my sinning. 

To return in this ramSling letter to tba 
subject I set out with, let me recommend my 
friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
good offices ; his worth entitles him to the 
one. and his gratitud" will merit the other. 
I long much to hear from you. Adieu. 



NO. ccxxiv. 



TO THE EARL OP BUCHAN. 
Ellislaiul, 1791. 

My Lord — Language sinks luider the 
ardour of my feelings, when I would thank 
your lordship for the honour you have done 
me in inviting me to make one at the coro- 
nation of the bust of Thomson. In my first 
enthusiasm in reading the card you did me 
the honour to write me, I overlooked every 
obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear it 
wdl not be in my power. A week or two's 
absence in the very middle of my harvest, is 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. 
I once already made a pilgrimage iip the 
whole course of the Tweed, and fondly 
would I take the same delightful journey 
down the windings of that delightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the 
occasion ; but who would write after Collins? 
I read over his verses to the memory of 
Thomson, and despaired. I got indeed to th_ 
length of three or four stanzas, in the way 
of address to the shade of the bard, ou 
crowning his bust. I shall trouble your 
lordship with the subjoined copy of (heia, 
which, I am afraid, will be but too C(m- 
vincing a proof how unequal I am to the 
task. However, it affords me an opportunity 




%^} 




iie 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUR^S. 



of approachiiifj your lordship, and declaring 
how sincerely and griilefuUy I ha\e the 
houour to be, &c. &. B. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. (123) 

My Lady — I would, as usual, have 
availed myself of the privilege your goodness 
has allowed me, of sending you anything I 
compose in my poetical way ; but, as 1 have 
resolved, so soon as the shock of my irre- 
parable loss would allow me, to pay a 
tribnte to my late benefactor, I determined 
to make that the first piece I shunlil do 
myself the honour of sending you. Had 
the wing of my fancy been C(inal to the 
ardour of my heart, the enclosed had been 
much more w orthy your perusid : as it is, 
l beg leave to lay it at your ladyship's 
feet. (124) As all the world knows my 
obligations to the late Earl of Glencairu ; I 
woidd wish to show, as openly, that my heart 
glows, and shall ever glow, with the most 
grateful sense and remembrance of his lord- 
ship's goodness. The sables I did myself 
the honour to wear to his lordship's 
memory, were not the " mockery of woe." 
Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! If, 
among my children, I shall have a son that 
^»as a heart, he shall hand it down to his 
<liild as a family honour, and a family debt, 
that my dearest existence I owe to the 
roble house of Glencairu ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you 
*hiiik the pnem may venture to see the 
'ight, I woidd, iu some way or other, give it 
v> the world. E. B. 



NO. ccxxvi. 



TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

Ellisland, Sept. 1st, 1791. 

My Dear Sloan — Suspense is worse 
than disappointment ; for that reason, I 
hurry to tell you that I just now learn that 
Mr. Ballantine does not chose to interfere 
more in the business. I am truly sorry for 
it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you 
omitt'cd one little necessary piece of iufor- 
taation — yo'" address. 

However, you know equally well my hur. 
"ied life, indolent temper, yjid strength d 



attachment. It must be a longiir peric/d 
than the longest life " in the world's balj 
and undegeuerate days," that will make ma 
forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am 
prodigal enough at times, but I will not part 
with such a treasure as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras of 
your present situation. You know my 
favourite quotation from Young ; — 

" On reason build Resolve I 

That column of true majesty in man." 
And that other favourite one from Thom- 
son's Alfred : — 

"What proves the hero truly great. 
Is, never, never to despair." 
Or, shall I quote you au author of your 
acquaintance ? 

" AYhether doing, suffering, or 

FORBEARING, 

You may do miracles — by persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few 
friends we have are going on in the old way. 
I sold my crop on this day se'nnight, ai.d 
sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on au 
average, above value. But such a scene of 
drunkenness was hardly ever seen iu this 
country. After the roup was over, about 
thirty people engaged in a battle, every man 
for his own hand, and fought it out for 
three hours. Nor was the scene much better 
in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks 
lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, 
until both my dogs got so drunk by attend- 
ing them, that they could not stand. You 
will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as 
I was no farther off than you used to see 
me. 

Mrs. B. and ftiraily have been iu Ayrshire 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, mv dear 
friend 1 R. B 



no. ccxvii. 



TO COLONEL FULLARTON, 

OF FULLARTON. (125) 

Ellisland, Oct. Zrd, 1791. 

Sir — I have just this minute got the 
frank, and next minute must send it to post, 
else I purposed to have sent you two or 
three other bagatelles that might have anniscd 
a vacant hour, about as well as " Six excel- 
lent new Songs," or the "Aberdeen progaos- 
ticutions for the year to come." (126) i shall 
probably trouble you soon with aucvbiei 



TO MKS. DTJNLOP. 



371 



packet, .)out the gloomy month of Novem- 
per, when the people of England hang and 
drown t.ieraselves — anytliirig, generally, is 
better than one's own thoughts. 

Po.id as I may be of my own productions, 
it is not for their sake that I am so anxious to 
send you them. I am ambitious, covetously 
ambitious, of being known to a gentleman 
whom I am proud to call my countryman 
(127); a gentleman, who was a foreign auibas- 
Bad jr as soon as he was a man ; and a 
leader of armies as soon as he was a soldier ; 
and that with an eclat unknown to the usual 
minions of a court — men who, with all the 
adventitious advantages of princely connec- 
tions, and princely fortunes, must yet, like 
the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime before 
they reajh the wished-for height, there to 
roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the 
remaining glimmering existence of old age. 

If the gentleman that accompanied you 
when you did me the honour of calling on 
me, is with you, I beg to be respectfully 
remembered to him. I have the honour to 
be, your highly obhged and most devoted 
humble servant, K. B. 



NO. CCXXVIII. 

TO MISS DAVIES. (1.23) 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the 
chief of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the 
moral powers, that may be called a lethargy 
of conscience. In vain. Remorse rears her 
horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes : 
beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand 
of Indolence, their wildest ire is charmed 
into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out 
the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined 
wall. Nothing less, Madam, could have 
made me so long neglect your obliging com- 
mands. Indeed, I had one apology — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 
so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies's 
fate and welfare in the serious business of 
life, amid its chances and changes, that to 
make her the subject of a silly ballad is 
downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 
'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Grai.'ious Heaven I why this disparity 
between our wishes and our powers ? Why 
is tiie most generous wish to make others 
blest, impotent and ineffectual, as the idle 
breoe that crosses the pathless desert ? lu 



my walks of life I have met with a few peo- 
ple to whom how gladly would I have said, 
" Go ! be happy ! I know that your heart! 
have been wounded by the scorn of the 
proud, whom accident has placed above you 
— or, worse still, in whose hands are perhaps 
placed many of the comforts of your life 
But there ! ascend that rock. Independence, 
and look justly down on their littleness of 
soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
your indignation, and the foolish sink before 
your contempt; and largely impart that 
happiness to others, which, I am certain, 
will give yourselves so much pleasure to 
bestow." 

Wl^, dear IMadam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must 
I find myself poor and powerless, incapable 
of wiping one tear from the eye of Pity, or 
of adding one comfort to the friend I love* 
Out upon the world 1 say I, that its affair* 
are administered so ill! They talk of 
reform; good Heaven! what a reform would 
I make among the sons, and even the daugh- 
ters of men ! Down, immediately should 
go fools from the high places where mis- 
begotten chance has perked them up, and 
through life should they skulk, ever haunted 
by their native insignificance, as the body 
marches accompanied by its shadow. As 
for a much more formidable class, the 
knaves, I am at a loss what to do with 
them : had I a world, there should not be a 
knave in it. 

But the hand that could give, I would 
liberally fill : and I would pour delight ou 
the heart that could kindly forgive, and gene- 
rously love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable ; but there is 
a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying 
every view in which we can place lovely 
woman, that are grated and shocked at the 
rude, capricious distinctions of Fortune. 
^Yoman is the blood-royal of life : let there 
be slight degrees of precedency among theia 
— but let them be all sacred. Whether 
this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am 
not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
ueut feature of ray miud. R. B. 



MO. CCXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, Decemher llth, 1791 
JIany thanks to you. Madam, for your 
good uews respecting the httle lloweret auJ 




878 



COREESPONDENtE OF BURNS. 



the mother plant. T hcpe my f oetic prayei s 
have bueii lieard, and will be answered up to 
the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent; 
and then Mrs. Henri will find her little 
darling the representative of his late parent, 
in every thing but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, 
■which, to a lady, the descendant of \Vallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious 
line — and herself the mother of several 
soldiers — needs neither preface uor apo- 
logy. 

[Here follows the " Song of Death."} 

The circumstance that gave rise to the 
foregoing verses, was — looking over with a 
musical friend, iI'Donald's collection of 
Highland airs, I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled "Oran an Aoig," 
or the "Song of Death," to the measure of 
which I have adapted my stanzas. I have, 
of late, composed two or three other little 
pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, 
whose broad impudent face now stares at 
old mother earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping 
forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to 
transcribe to you. A Dieu je vous com- 
mende. R. fi. 



NO. GCXXX, 

TO MR. AINSUE. 

Ellisland, 1791. 

My dear Ainslie — Can you minister 
to a mind diseased ? — can you, amid the 
horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head- 
ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch who 
has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — 
can you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried 
every thing that used to amuse me, but in 
fain : here must I sit, a monument of the 
vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, 
slowly counting every tick of the clock, as it 
Blovvly, slowly, numbers over these lazy 
scoundrels of hours, who, • * * ». are 
ranked up before me, every one following 
his neighbour, and every one with a burden 
of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
devoted head — and there is none to pity 
me. My wife scolds me, my business tor- 
ments me, and my sins come staring me in 
the face, every one telling a more bitter 
tale tlaii his fellow. AVhen I tell you even 
• • * baa J:»st its power to pleaiB, you 



will guess sometluiig af my bell within and 
all around me. I began Elibanks and 
El'chraes, but the stanzas fell untu- 
joyed and unfinished from my listless 
tongue : at last I luckily thought of reading 
over an old letter of yours, that lay by me, 
in my book-case, and I felt something, for 
for the first time since I opened my eyes, of 

pleasurable existence. Well — 1 begin to 

breathe a little since I began to write to 
you ? How are you, and what are you 
doing. How goes law? A-propos, for 
connexion's sake, do not address to me 
supervisor, for that is an honour I cannot 
pretend to ; I am on the list, as we call it, 
for a supervisor, and will be called out, by 
and bye, to act as one ; but at, present, I am 
a simple guager, tho' t'other day I got an 
appointment to an Excise division of £25 per 
auiHiin better than the rest. My present 
income, down money, is £70 per annum. 

I have one oi two good fellows here, 
whom you would be glad to know. 

R. B. 



NO. CCXXX.1. 

TO , 



Ellisland, Vi\)i. 

Thou eunuch of language; thou English- 
man, who never was south the Tweed ; thou 
servile echo of fashionable barbarisms ; thou 
quack, vending the nostrums of empirical 
elocution ; thou marriage-maker between 
vowels and consonants, on the Gretna Green 
of caprice; thou cobbler, botching the flimsy 
socks of bombast oratory ; thou blacksmith, 
hammering the rivets of absurdity ; thou 
butcher, embruing thy hands in the bowels 
of orthography; thou arch-heritic in pro- 
nunciation ; thou pitch pipe of affected 
emphasis ; thou carpenter, mortising the 
awkward joints of jarring sentences; thou 
squeaking dissonance of cadence; thou piinp 
of gender ; thou Lion Herald to silly ety- 
mology ; thou antipode of grammar ; thou 
execuiioner of construction; thou brood of 
the speech-distracting builders of the Tower 
of Babel ; thou lingual confusion worse con- 
founded ; thou scape-gallows from the land 
of syntax ; thou scavenger of mood and 
tense ; thou murderous accoucheur of infant 
learning; thou ignis fatuus, misleading the 
steps of benighted ignorance; thou pickle- 
hfrring in the puppet-show of nonsense; 
thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom ; 
thuu persecutor of syllabication; thoubalef>J 







TO ]\[R. t\rM. NICOL. 



879 



«ne«.enr, fnretelliua^ aed facilitating the rapid 
ftpproach of Nox and Erebus. R. 13. 



NO. CCXXXII. 

TO FRAliTCIS GROSE, Esa F.S.A. (129) 
Dumfries, 1792. 

Sir — I believe amon<j all our Scots literati 
you have not met with Professor Dii;,'al(l 
Stewart, who lills the moral philosophy chair 
in tlie University of E(linbiiri;h. To say 
tliat he is a man of the lirst parts, and, what 
is more, a man of the tirst wm-th, to a j,^eii- 
tlenian of your general acquaintance, and 
wiio so much enjoys the luxury of unencum- 
bered freedom and undisturbed privacy, is 
not, perhaps, recommendation enough ; but 
when 1 inform you that Mr. Stewart's prin- 
cipal characteristic is your favourite feature 
— Ilidt sterling independence of mind, which, 
thougli every man's riglit, so few men have 
the coin-age to claim, and fewer still the 
magnanimity to support : when I tell you, 
that nnsednced by splendour, and nndis- 
gnstod by wretchedness, he appreciates the 
merits of the various actors in the great 
drama of life, merely as they perform their 
parts — in short, he is a man after your own 
heart, and I comply with liis earnest rcciuest 
in letting you know that he wishes above all 
tiling's 1 o meet with you. His honse, Catrine, 
is wiiliin less than a mile of Soru Castle, 
which yon proposed visiting; or if you could 
transnut him the enclosed, he would, with 
the greatest ])leasin'e, meet you any where 
in the ncigliljuurluKul. I write to Ayrslme 
to inf(n-m Mr. Stewart that I have accpiitted 
myself of my promise. Should your time 
and spirits permit your meeting with Mr. 
Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will 
forgive this liberty, and 1 have, at hsst, an 
opportunity of assuring you with what truth 
and respect I am. Sir, your great aduiirer, 
aud vei'^ humble servant, R. iJ. 



NO. ccxxxm. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELIJE, 

PRINTER. 

Dumfries, January 22ml, 1792. 

I SIT dnwn, my dear Sir, to introduce a 
young laily to you, and a lady in the lirst 
ranks of fashion, too. What a task ! to 
yi5u— -who care no more for the herd of 
luimala called young ladies, than you do for 



the herd of animals called young geiitlcmeu 
To Jfou — who despise and detest the group" 
ings and combinations of fashion, as an idiot 
painter that seems industrious to place 
staring fools aud unprincipled knaves in the 
foreground of his picture, while men of 
sense and honesty are too often thrown m 
the dimmest shades. Mrs. Ridde? (130), 
who will take this letter to town w.th her, 
and send it to you, is a character that, even 
in your own way, as a naturalist and a phi- 
losopher, would be an acquisition to your 
acqiuiintance. The lady, too, is a votary of 
the muses ; and as I tlunk myself somewhat 
of a judge in my own trade, I assure you 
that her verses, always correct, and often 
elegant, are much beyond the common run 
of the ladiz-poelcsses of the day. She is a 
great admirer of your book (131); and 
hearing me say that I was acquainted with 
you, she begged to be known to yon, as she 
is just going to pay her lirst visit to our 
Caleilonian capital. I told her that her best 
way was, to desire her near relation, and 
your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to hav« 
you at his house while she was there ; and 
lest you might think of a lively West Indiaa 
girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often 
deserve to be thought of, 1 should take care 
to remove that prejudice. To be impartial, 
however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
she lias one unlucky failing — a failing which 
you will e;isily discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it — and a failing 
that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin 
which very much besets yourself — where she 
dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no 
more a secret of it than where she esteems 
and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compUmeiiis of the season, but 1 will send 
you my w^annest wishes aud most ardent 
prayers, that Foktu.ne may never throw 
your SUBSISTENCE to the mercy of a 
KNAVE, or set your ciiauacteu on the 
judgment of a fool ; but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
wliere men of letters sliall say, " Here lies a 
man who did honour to science," and men of 
worth shall say, " Here lies a man who did 
honour to human nature." R. B. 



NO. CCXXXIV. 

TO MR. WM. NICOL. 

February 20tli, 1792. 
Oit, thou wisest among the wise, meridian 
blaze of prudence, fuD moou o*" diacretjoii, 




<Sm}\l 



^^f^ 




38(> 



COKRESPONDENCE OF BUEN8. 



and chief oi many counsellors ! (132) How 
infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, 
wrong-headed, round-headed slav:; indebted 
to thy super-eminent goodness, that, from 
the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
rectitude, thou lookest benignly down on an 
erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wander- 
uigs defy all the powers of calculation, from 
ike simple copulation of units, up to the 
hid Jen mysteries of fluxions! May one 
feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of Heaven, and bright as the meteor 
of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that 
I may be less unworthy of the face and 
favour of that father of proverbs, and master 
of maxims, that autipode of fully, and mag- 
net among the sages, the wise and witty 
Willie Nicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be it! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilen- 
tial fumes of my political heresies, I look up 
to thee, as doth a toad through the iron- 
barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to 
the cloudless glory of a summer sun ! 
Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, 
when shall my name be the quotation of the 
wise, and my countenance be the delight of 
the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's 
many hills? (133) As for him, his works 
are perfect — never did the pen of calumny 
blur the fair page of his reputation, nor the 
bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the 
elfme lamp of my glimmerous understanding, 
purged from sensual appetites and gross 
desires, shine like the constellation of thy 
intellectual powers ! As for thee, thy 
thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. 
Never did the unhallowed breath of the 
powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy 
sky-descended and heaven-bound desires ; 
never did the vapours of impurity stain the 
unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. 
Oh, that like thine were the tenor of my life, 
like thine the tenor of my conversation ! — 
then should no friend fear for my strength, 
no enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then, 
ulioidd 1 lie down and rise up, and none to 
make me afraid. May thy pity and thy 
prayer be exercised for, oh thou lamp of 
wisdom aiid mirror of fuorality I thy devoted 
ilave, Fw B. 



NO. CCXXXV. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esa., F.S.A. 

Dumfries, 1795t. 

Among the many witch stories I hav« 
heard, relating to AUoway kirk, I distinctly 
remember only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling 
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail- 
in short, on sucli a night as the devil would 
choose to take the air in — a farmer, or 
farmer's servant, was plodding and plashing 
homeward with his plough-irons on his 
shoulder, having been getting some repairs 
on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
way lay by the kirk of Alluway ; and being 
ratlier on the anxious look-out in approach- 
iirg a place so well known to be a favourite 
haunt of the devil, and the devil's friends 
and emissaries, he had been struck aghast, 
by discovering through the horrors of the 
storm and stormy night, a light, which oa 
his nearer approach plainly showed itself to 
proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether 
he had been fortified from above, on his 
devout supplication, as is customary with 
people when they suspect the immediate 
presence of Satan, or whether, according to 
another custom, he had got courageously 
drunk at the smithy, I wdl not pretend to 
determine ; but, so it was, that he ventured 
to go up to, nay, into the very kirk. As 
luck would have it, his temerity came off 
unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were 
all out on some midnight business or other, 
and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or 
caldron, depending from the roof, over the 
fire, simmering some heads of unchristened 
children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c., 
for the business of the night. It was, iu 
for a penny, in for a ))ound, with the honest 
plonghmau : so without ceremony he un- 
hooked the caldron from oft" the fire, and, 
pouring out t'ne damnable ingredients, 
inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
home, where it remained long in the family, 
a living evidence of the truth of the stcry. 

Another story, which I can prove to !« 
equally authentic, was as follows : — 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a 
fiirmer from Carrick, and consequently 
wliose way lay by the very gate of Alloway 
kirk-yard, in order to cross the river Doon 
at the old bridge, which is about two or 
three hundred yards further on than the said 
gate, had been detained by his business, tiU 
by the time he reached Alloway it was tk» 
wizard hour, between uight ai.il moiaiirg. 







'^^D^ 




TO MR. J. CLARKE. 



asi 



Thot.gh he vas terrified with a blaze 
Mreaniiiig' from the kirk, yet, as it is a well- 
known fact, tliat to turn back on these 
occasions is running by far the greatest risk 
of mischief, he prudently advanced on his 
road. When he had reached the gate of 
the kirk-yard, he was surprised and enter- 
tauied. througli the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which still faces the 
highway, to see a dance of witches merrily 
footing it round their old sooty blackguard 
master, who was keeping them all alive with 
the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, 
stoppnig his horse to observe them a little, 
could plainly descry the faces of many old 
women of his acquaintance and neighbour- 
hood. How the gentleman was dressed, 
tradition does not say, but that the ladies 
were all in their smocks : and one, of them 
happening uiduckily to have a smock which 
was considerably too short to answer all the 
purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer 
was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst 
out, with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, 
Maggy wi' the short sark!" and recollecting, 
himself, instantly spurred his horse to the 
top of his speed. I need not mention the 
universally known fact, that no diabolical 
power can pursue you beyond the middle of 
a running stream. Lucky it was for the 
poor farmer that the river Doon was so 
near, for, notwithstanding the speed of his 
horse, which was a good one, against he 
reached the middle of the arch of the 
bridge, and, consequently, the middle of the 
stream, the pursiiing, vengeful hags, were 
so close at his heels, that one of them 
actually sprang to seize him : but it was too 
late ; nothing was on her side of the stream 
but the horse's tail, which immediately gave 
way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a 
stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was 
beyond her reach. However, the unsightly, 
tail-less ''ondition of the vigorous steed, 
vra.% to the last hour of the noble creature's 
life, an awful warning to the C.nrrick farmers 
not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 

I'he last relation I shall give, though 
equally true, is not so well ideiitifted as the 
two former, with regard to the scene ; but 
as the best authorities give it for Alloway, 
I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time 
nature puts on her sable* to mourn the 
expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, 
belonging to a farmer in the immediate 
neighbourhood of Alloway kirk, had just 
folded his charge, and was returnmg home. 
As he passed the kirk, in the adjoining 
field, he fell in with a crew of men and I 



women, who were busy pulling stems of (he 
plant Ragwort, llf observed that as each 
person pulled a RAgwort, he or she goi 
astride of it, and called out, " Up horsie ! " 
on which the Ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, 
through the air with its rider. The foolish 
boy likewise pulled his Ragwort, and i;ried 
with the rest, " Up horsie ! " and, strange 
to tell, away he flew with the company. 
The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt, 
was a merchant's wine cellar, in Bourdeaux, 
where, without saying, by your leave, they 
quafl'ed away at the best the cellar could 
atFord, until the morning, foe to the imps 
and works of darkness, threatened to throw 
light on the matter, and frightened them 
from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heed- 
lessly got himself drunk ; and when the 
rest took horse, he fell asleep, and was 
found so next day by some of the people 
belonging to the merchant. Somebody tha* 
iinderstoud Scotch, asked him what he was, 
he said, such-a-one's herd in AUoway, and, 
by some means or other, getting home 
again, he lived long to tell the world the 
wondrous tale. R. B. (134) 



NO. CCXXXVI. 

TO MR. J. CLARKE, 

EDINBURGH. 

July I6th, 1792. 

Mr. Burns begs leave to present his 
most respectful compliments to Mr. Clarke. 
Mr. B. some time ago did himself the 
honour of writing Mr. C. respecting coming 
out to the country, to give a little musical 
instruction in a highly respectable famih, 
where Mr. C. may have his own terms, and 
may be as happy as indolence, the devil, and 
the gout, will permit him. Mr. B. knows 
well how Mr. C. is engaged with another 
family ; but, cannot Mr. C. find two or three 
weeks to spare to each of them? Mr. B. is 
deeply impressed with, and awfully con- 
scious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'s 
time; whether in the winged moments of 
symphouious exhibition, at the keys 0)1 
harmony, while listening serajihs cease their 
own less delightful strains; or, in thi 
drowsy arms of slumb'rous repose, in the 
arms of his dearly beloved elbow chair, 
where the frowsy, ))ut potent power of 



382 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



indo'ence, circurafiises her vapours round, 
Rud sheds her dews on the head of her 
darlinci; son. But half a hne, conveying half 
n meaning from Mr. C, would make Mr. 
B. the happiest of mortals. R. B. 



WO. CCXXXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Annan Water-foot, August 22nd, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it, Madam — my 
own conscience, hackneyed and weather- 
beaten as it is, in watching and reproving 
my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c., has con- 
tinued to punish me sufficiently. 

Do you think it possible, my dear and 
honoured friend, that I could be so lost to 
gratitude for many favours, to esteem for 
much worth, and to the honest, kind, 
pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, — 
and I hope, and am sure, of progressive, 
increasing friendship — as for a single day, 
not to think of you— to ask the Fates 
what they are doing, and about to do, with 
my much-loved friend and her wide scattered 
connexion, and to beg of them to be as 
kind to you and yours as they possibly 
can ? 

A-propo3 ! (though how it is a-propos, I 
have not leisure to explain), do you know 
that I am almost in love with an acquaint- 
ance of yours? Almost! said I — I am iu 
love, souce, over head and ears, deep as the 
most unfathomable abyss of the boundless 
ocean! — but the word love, owing to the 
inferminf/ledoms of the good and the bad, the 
pure and the impure, iu this world, being 
rather an equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentimeuts and sensations, I must do justice 
to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; the 
distant humble approach; the delight we 
should have in gazing upon and listening to 
a messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, 
aiuong the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons 
of men, to deliver to them ticL'iigs that make 
their hearts swim in joy, and their imagina- 
tions soar in transport — such, so delighting 
and so pure, were the emotions of my soul, 
on meeting the other day with JMiss Lesley 

Baillie, your neighbour, at M 's. Mr. B., 

with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. 
H. of G., passing through Dumfries a few 
daj s ago, ou their way to England, did me 
lh« hououi of calling ou me; ou which I 



took my horse (though, Govi knjws, I coulct 
ill spare the time), and accompanied them 
fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, 
I think, when I left them, and, riding home, 
I composed the following ballad, of which 
you will probably think you have a dear 
bargain, as it will cost you another groat of 
postage. You must know that there is tm 
old ballad beginning with : — 

My bonnie Lizzie Baillie, 

111 rowe thee in my plaidie, &c 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, "unanointed, unanuealed," 
as Hamlet says : — 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, &c. 

So much for ballads. I regret that yoa 
are gone to the east country, as I am to be 
in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This 
world of ours, notwithstanding it has many 
good things in it, yet it has ever had this 
curse, that two or three people, who would 
be the happier the ofrener they met together, 
are, almost without exception, always so 
placed as never to meet but once or twice 
a-year, which, considering the few years of a 
man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon 
has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries 
of man. I hope, and believe, that there is a 
state of existence beyond the grave, where 
the worthy of this life will renew their 
former intimacies, with this endearing 
addition, that " we meet to part no more 1 " 

Tell us, ye dead. 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be? 

A thousand times have I made this apos- 
trophe to the departed sons of men, but not 
one of them has ever thought fit to answer 
the question. "Oh that some courteous 
ghost would blab it out ! " But it cannot 
be; you and I, my friend, must make tli9 
experiment by ourselves, and for ourselveo. 
However, I am so convinced that an un- 
shaken faith in the doctrines of religion ia 
not only necessary, by making us better 
men, but also by making us happier men, 
that I should take every care that your littla 
godson, and every little creature that shaV 
call me fatlier, shall be taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written 
at this wild place of the world, in thu 
intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel 
of rum from Antigua. R. B. 








TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



883 



NO. cdxxxviii. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, Sept. lOth, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. 
Amiil all my hurry of business, grinding 
tlie fices of the puMican and the sinner on 
thn mjiciless wheels of the Excise; makiug 
fcallads, and then drinking, and singing 
tl.eni ; and, over and above all, the cor- 
irectiiig the press-work of two different pub- 
Kcations ; still, still I might have stolen live 
minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures. I might have 
done, as I do at present, snatched an hour 
near "witching time of night," and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated 
iny friend on his marriage ; or I might have 
thanked the Caledonian archers for the 
honour they have done me (though, to do 
myself justice, I intended to have done both 
in rhyme, else I had done both long ere 
now.) Well, then, here is to your good 
health ! — for you must know, I have set a 
nipperkiu of toddy by me, just by way of 
Hpell, to keep away the meikle horned deil, 
or any of his subaltern imps, who may be 
on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you? "The 
voice said, Cry," and I said, "What shall I 
cry?" Oh, thou spirit ! whatever thou art, 
or wherever thou makest thyself visible ! 
Be thoti a bogle by the eerie side of an auld 
thorn, in the dreary glen through which the 
herd-callan maun bicker in his gloamin route 
frae the fauld ! Be thou a brownie, set, at 
dead of night, to thy task by the blazing 
ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the 
repercussions of thy iron flail half affright 
thyself, as thou performest the work of 
twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock- 
crowing summon thee to thy ample cog of 
•ubttantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunt- 
ing the ford or ferry, in the starless night, 
mixing thy laughing yell with the howling 
of the storm and the roaring of the flood, as 
tnou viewest the perils and miseries of man 
on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling 
boat ! Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paymg 
thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of 
decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic 
rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks,' without a cloud, on 
the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead 
around thee , or, taking thy stand by the 
bedside of the villain, or the murderer, por- 
traying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, 
dieadful as the horrors of unveiled hell, and 
^rible as the yrath of incensed Deity! 



Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid 
forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy 
inspirations, which thou breatliest round the 
wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a 
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run 
at the light-horse gallop of clisiimaclaver for 
ever and ever — come, and assist a poor devil 
who is (piiie jaded in the attempt to share 
half an idea among half a hundred words ; 
to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not 
got one single sentence of recollection, in- 
formation, or remark, worth putting pen to 
paper for. 

A-propos, how do you like — I mean really 
like — the married life ? Ah, my friend ! 
matrimony is quite a different thing from 
what your love-sick youths and sighing girls 
take It to be ! But marriage, we are told, is 
appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel 
with any of his institutions. I am a husband 
of older standing than you, and shall give 
you my ideas of the conjugal state {en 
passant ; you know I am no Latinist, is not 
conjurjnl derived irovajumm, a yoke !) Well, 
then, the scale of good wifeship I divide into 
ten parts. Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, 
two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. & 
sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful 
carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but 
that is soon spoilt you know), all these, one ; 
as for the other qualities belonging to, or 
attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, Con- 
nections, Education (I mean education ex- 
traordinary), Family blood, &c., divide the 
two remaining degrees among them as you 
please ; only, remember, that all these minor 
properties must be expressed by fractiuns, 
for there is not any one of them, in the 
aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of an 
iiiteijer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries 
— how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillir.. 
the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 
world — how I accompanied her and her 
father's family fifteen miles on their journey, 
out of pure devotion, to admire the loveli- 
ness of the works of God, in such an 
unequalled display of them — how, in gallop- 
ing home at night, I made a ballad on her, q 
which these two stanzas make a part- - 

Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, boiuiie Lesley, art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The very deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee I 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, ' I canua wrang thee'-' 



.S-t 



384 



COKRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Behold all these thinsfs are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be 
read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy 
beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a 
moi e convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
JoMwi-compunion, be given the precious 
things brought forth by the sun, and the 
precious things brought forth by the moon, 
and the henignest influences of the stars, 
and the living streams which flow from the 
fountains of life, and by the tree of life, for 
ever aud ever 1 Ameu ! H. £. 



NO. CCXXXIX. 

MR. THOMSON (135) TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, September 1792. 

Sir — For some years past I have, with a 
friend or two, employed many leisure hours 
in selecting and collating the most favourite 
of our national melodies for publication. 
We have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable 
composer living, to put accompaniments to 
these, and also to compose an instrumental 
prelude and conclusion to each air, the 
better to fit them for concerts, both public 
and private. To render this work perfect, 
we are desirous to have the poetry improved, 
wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
and that it is so in many instances, is 
allowed by every one conversant with our 
musical collections. The editors of these 
seem, in general, to have depended on the 
music proving an excuse for the verses ; and 
hence, some charming melodies are united to 
mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are 
accommodated with rhymes so loose and 
indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent 
company. To remove this reproach would 
be an easy task to the author of the 
"Cotter's Saturday Night;" and, for the 
honour of ('aledonia, I would fain hope he 
may be induced to take up the pen. If so, 
we shall be enabled to present the public 
with a collection, intinitely more interesting 
than any that has yet a.])peared, and accept- 
able to all persons of taste, whether they 
wish for correct melodies, delicate accom- 
paninients, or characteristic verses. We will 
esteem your poetical assistance a particular 
favour, besides, paying any reasonable price 
you shall please to demand for it. Profit is 
^luite a secondary consideration with us, and 
we are resolved to spare neither pains nor 
expense on the publication. Tell me, frankly, 



then, whether you will derotc yonr leisure ta 

MTiting twenty or twenty-five songs, suited 
to tlie particular melodies which I am pre- 
pared to send you. A few songs, exception- 
able only in some of their verses, I will like- 
wise submit to your consideration ; leaving 
it to you, either to mend these, or make new 
songs in their stead. It is superfluous to 
assure you that I have no intention to dis- 
place any of the sterling old songs ; those 
only will be removed which appear quite 
silly or absolutely indecent. Even these 
shall be all examined by Mr. Burns, and if 
he is of opinion that any of them are 
deserving of the music, in such cases no 
divorce shall take place. Q. Thomson. 



NO. CCXL. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, Sept. IGth, 1792. 

Sir — ^I have just this moment got your 
letter. As the request you make to me will 
positively add to my enjoyments in comply- 
ing with it, I shall enter into yonr under- 
taking with all the small portion of abilities 
I have, strained to their utmost exertion by 
the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don't 
hurry me : — "Deil tak the hindmost" is by 
no means the cri de (juerre of my muse. 
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in 
enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and 
music of old Caledonia, and, since you 
request it, have cheerfully promised my mite 
of assistance — will you let me have a list of 
your airs with the first line of the printed 
verses you intend for them, that I may have 
an opportunity of suggesting any alteration 
that may occur to me? You know 'tis in 
the way of my trade; still leaving you, 
gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers 
to approve or reject, at your pleasure, for 
your own publication. A-propos, if you are 
for English verses, there is, on my part, an 
end of the matter. Whether in the sim- 
plicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the 
song, I can only hope to please myself in 
being allowed at least a sprinkling of our 
native tongue. English verses, particularly 
the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are 
certainly very eligible. "Tweedside!" ",\h! 
the poor shepherd's mournful fate !" "Ah ! 
Chloris, could I now but sit," &c., you ('an. 
not mend ; but such insipid stuff as " To 
Fanny fair could I impart," &c., usually set 
to " The Mill, Mill, O ! " is a disgrace to the 
coilcctious iu which it has already appeared, 










MR. THOMSON TO BTTRNS. 



380 



End would d;nblj dis^ace a collection that 
will have the very superior merit of yours. 
But more of this in tlie further prosecution 
of the business, if I am called on for my 
strictures and amendments — 1 say araend- 
nieuts, for I will not alter except where I 
myself, at least, think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think 
my sonjjs either above or below price ; for 
they shall absolutely be the one or the other. 
In the honest enthusiasm with which I 
embark in your undertaking, to talk of 
money, washes, fee, hire, iSrc, would be down- 
right prostitution (136) of soul ! A proof of 
each of the songs that I compose or amend, 
I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic 
phrase of the season, " Gude speed the 
wark ! " I am. Sir, your very humble 
servant^ R. Burns. 



NO. CCXLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfiie}, Sept, 2itk, 1792. 

I HAVE this moment, my dear INIadam, 
yours of the 23rd. All your other kind 
reproaches, your news, &c., are out of my 
head, when I read and think on Mrs. Henri's 
situation. Good God ! a heart-wounded 
helpless young woman — in a strange, foreign 
land, and that land convulsed with every 
horror that can harrow the human feelings 
— sick — looking, longing for a comforter, 
but finding none — a mother's feelings, too — 
but it is too much : he who wounded (he 
only can) may He heal ! 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new 
acquisition to his famdy. ****** I can- 
not say that I give him joy of his life as a 
fanner. 'Tis, as a farmer, paying a dear, 
unconscionable rent, a cursed life! As to a 
laird farming his own property ; sox^ing his 
own corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite 
of brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing 
that none can say unto him, " What dost 
thou?" — fattening his herds; shearing his 
flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and beget- 
ting sons and daughters, until he be the 
venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe 
— 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil ta'ive the life 
of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, 
u to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire 
visit. I canriot leave Mrs. B. until her nine 
months' race is run, which may, ])crhaps, be 
in three or four weeks. She, too, seems 
determinai to make me the patriarchal 
C 



leader of a baiid. However, if Heaven will 
be so oblignig as to let me have them in the 
proportion of three boys to one girl I shall 
be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I 
am spared with them, to show a set of boys 
that will do honour to my cares and name ; 
but I am not equal to the task of rearing 
girls. Besides, I am too poor — a girl should 
always have a fortune. A-propos, your little 
godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devd. He, though two years younger, has 
completely mastered his brother. Bobert is 
indeed the mddest, gentlest, creature I ever 
saw. He has a most surprising memory, 
and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart — you can 
excuse it. God bless you and yours ! 

R. B. 



NO. CCXLII. 

TO THE SAME. 



I HAD been from home, and did not 
receive your letter until my return the other 
day. What shall I say to comfort you, my 
much-valued, much-atilicted friend ! I can 
but grieve with you ; consolation I have 
none to offer, except that which religion 
holds out to the children of alUiction — 
{children of affliction! — how just the ex- 
pression !) — and like every other family, 
they have matters among them which they 
hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important 
manner, of which the world has not, nor 
cares to have, any idea. The world looks 
indifferently on, makes the passing remark, 
and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years? What is it but to drag existence 
until our joys gradually expire, and leave us 
in a night of misery — like the gloom which 
blots out the stars, one by one, from the face 
of night, and leaves us, without a ray of 
comfort, in the howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, .and must leave off. 
You shall 800U hear from me again. 

R. B. 



NO. CCXLIH. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Oct. 13th, 1792. 

Dear Sir — I received with mucn sams. 
faction your pleasant and obliging letter sod 







885 



COREESPONDENCE OP BUENS. 



I return my warmest acknowledgments for 
the enthusia; m with which you have entered 
into our unJertaliiiig. We have now no 
doubt of being able to produce a collection 
highly deserving of public attention in all 
respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English 
verses, that have merit, very eligible, where- 
ever new verses are necessary, because the 
English becomes every year, more and more, 
the language of Scotland ; but, if you mean 
that no English verses, except those by 
Scottish authors, ought to he admitted. I am 
half inclined to difter from you. I should 
consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one 
good song in the Scottish dialect, to make 
room for Englisli verses; but if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the un- 
provided or ill-provided airs, would it not be 
the very bigotry of literary patriotism to 
reject such, merely because the authors 
were born south of the Tweed ? Our sweet 
air, " My Nannie, O ! " which in the collec- 
tions is joined to the poorest stuff that 
Allan Karasay ever wrote, beginning — 
" \^1iile some for pleasure pawn their health," 
answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful 
song, "Oh Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" 
that one would think he wrote it on purpose 
for the air. However, it is not at all our 
wish to confine you to English verses ; you 
shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of your 
native tongue, as you elegantly express it ; 
and, moreover, we will patiently wait your 
own time. One thing only I beg, which is, 
that however gay and sportive the muse may 
be, she may always be decent. Let her not 
write what beauty would blush to speak, nor 
wound that charming delicacy which forms 
the most precious dowry of our daughters. 
I do not conceive the song to be the most 
proper vehicle for witty and brilliant con- 
ceits ; simplicity, I believe, should be its 
prominent feature : but, in some of our 
songs, the writers have confounded simplicity 
with coarseness and vulgarity ; although, 
between the one and the other, as Dr. Beattie 
well observes, there is as great a ditference 
as between a plain suit of clothes and a 
bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or 
pathetic complaint, is best suited to our art- 
less melodies ; and more interesting, indeed, 
in all songs, than the most pointed wit, 
dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish 
to substitute others of your writing. I shall 
soon transmit the rest, and, at the same 
time, a prospct^tus of the whole collection ; 
«Bd, you inay believe, we will receive any 



hints that you are so kind as to give hr im.i 
proving the work, with the greatest pleasure 
and thankfulness. I remain, dear Sir, &c 



MO. CCXLIT. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

My Dear Sir — Let me tell you, thai 
you are too fastidious in your ideas o( 
songs and ballads, I own that your criti- 
cisms are just ; the songs you specify in 
your list have, all but one, the faults you 
remark in them ; but who shall mend the 
matter ? Who shall rise up and say, " Gc 
to ! I will make a better ? " For instance, 
on reading over "The Ijca-rig," I imme- 
diately set about trying my hand on it, and, 
after all, T could make nothing more of it 
than the following, which Heaven knows, is 
poor enough. 

[Here follow the two first stanzas of "My 
atn kind dearie O ! "] 

Your observation as to the aptitude of 
Dr. Percy's ballad to the air, " Nainiie, O 1 " 
is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most 
beautiful ballad in the English language. 
But let me remark to you, that in the senti- 
ment and style of our Scottish airs, there is 
a pastoral simplicity, a something that one 
may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal 
music, to which a dash of our native tongue 
and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly 
apposite. For this reason, and, upon my 
honour, for this reason alone, I am of 
opinion (but, as I told you before, my 
opmion is yours, freely yours, to approve or 
reject, as you please) that my ballad of 
" Nannie, ! " might perhaps do for one set 
of verses to the tune. Now don't let it 
enter into your head, that you are under any 
necessity of taking my verses. I have long 
ago made up my mind as to my own repu- 
tation in the business of authorship, and 
have nothing to be pleased or otl'ended at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. 
Though you should reject one half of what 
I give you, I shall be pleased with your 
adopting the other half, and shall continue 
to serve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my " Nannie, O ! " 
the name of the river is horridly prosaic. ) 
will alter it : 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvaa is the name of the river that «uita 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



387 



the idea of the stanza best, but Liigar is 
the most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon g^ive you a great many more 
remarks on this busniess ; but I have just 
now an opportunity of conveying you this 
scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is 
ill able to pay ; so, with my best compUmeuts 
to honest Allan, Gude be wi' ye, &c. 
Friday Night. 

Saturday Morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
morning before my conveyance goes away, I 
will give you " Nannie, O 1 " at length. 

Your remarks on " Ewe-bughts, Marion," 
are just ; still it has obtained a place among 
our more classical Scottish sougs ; and what 
with many beauties in its composition, and 
more prejudices in its favour, yo> . will not 
find it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was think- 
ing of going to the West Indies, ] took the 
following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite 
trifling, and has nothing of the merits of 
"Ewe-bughts; " but it ^\ill fill up this page. 
You must know that all my earlier love- 
songs were the breathings of ardert passion, 
and though it might have been easy in after- 
times to have given them a polish, yet that 
polish, to me, whose they were, and who 
perhaps alone cared for them, would have 
defaced the legend of my heart, which was 
so faithfully inscribed on them. Their un- 
couth simphcity was, as they say of wines, 
their race. 

[Here follows the song " Will ye go to the 
Indies, my Mary ? " Mr. Thomson did not 
adopt the song in his collection.~\ 

" Gala Water," and " Auld Rob Morris," 
I thiidi, will most probably be the next 
subject of my musings. However, even on 
my verses, speak out your criticisms with 
equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand 
aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opinidtrete, 
but cordially to join issue with you in the 
furtherance of the work. 



NO. CCXLV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the 
songs in your collection shall be poetry of 
the first merit, I am afraid you will find 
more difficulty in the undertaking than you 
ore aware oC There is a peculiar rhythmua 



in many of our airs, and a necessity of 
adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what 
I would call the feature-notes of tlie tune, 
that cramp the poet, and lay him under 
almost nisuperable difficulties. For instance, 
in the air, " My wife's a wanton wee thing," 
if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
adapted to it, it' is all you can expect. The 
following were made extempore to it ; and 
though, on further study, I might give you 
something more profound, yet it might not 
suit the light-horse gaUop of the air so well 
as this random clink : — 

[Here follows "My Wife's a winsome wet 
thing."'\ 

I have just been looking over the "Collier's 
bonnie dochter;" and if the following rhap- 
sody, which I composed the other day, on a 
charming Ayrshire girl. Miss Lesley Baillie, 
as she passed through this place to England, 
will suit your taste better than the " CoUier 
Lassie," fall on and welcome : — 

[Here follows "Bonnie Lesley. "1 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimen 
more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they 
will take, and deserve, a greater effort. How- 
ever, they are all put into your hands, as 
clay into the hands of the potter, to make 
one vessel to honour, and another to dis- 
honour. Farewell, &c. 



NO. CCXLVI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November lAth, 1792. 

My Dear Sir — I agree with you that 
the song, " Katharine Ogie," is very poor 
stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of 
so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it; but 
the awkward sound, Ogie, recurring so often 
in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at mtro- 
ducing sentiment into the piece. The fore- 
going song pleases myself ; I think it is in 
my happiest manner : you will see at first 
glance that it suits the air. The subject of 
the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful days, and I own that 
I should be much flattered to see the verses 
set to an air which would ensure celebrity. 
Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing pre- 
judice of my heart that throws a borrowed 
lustre over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of "Auld 
Rob Morris." I have adopted the two first 



34* 



CORKESPONDENCE OF BTJRNS. 



vers(s, and »m going on with the song on a 
new plan, which promises pretty well. I 
take up one or another, just as the bee of 
the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug ; and 
do you, sans ceremonie, make what use you 
choose of the productions. -Adieu, &c. 

K B. 



[Here folCows a copy of the 
Mary."'} 



' Hirjhland 



NO. CCXLVIL 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinhiiryk, Nov. 1792. 

Dear Sir — I was just going to write to 
you, that on meeting with your Nannie, I 
had fallen violently in love with her. I thank 
you, therefore, for sending the charming 
rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to 
Eppear before the public. She does you 
great credit, and will soon be admitted into 
the best company. 

I regret that your song for the " Ijca-rig " 
is so sliort ; the air is easy, soon sung, and 
very pleasing : so that, if the singer stops at 
the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost 
ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is, doubtless, peculiarly congenial 
and appropriate to our melodies, yet 1 shall 
be able to present a considerable number of 
the very Flowers of English song, well 
adapted to those melodies, which, in England, 
at least, will be the means of recommending 
them to still greater attention than they 
have procured there. But, you will observe, 
my plan is, that every air shall, in the first 
place, have verses wholly by Scottish poets ; 
and that those of Eeglish writers shall follow 
as additional songs for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the "Ewe-bughts" ia 
just; I admire it, and never meant to sup- 
plant it. All I requested was, that you 
would try your hand on some of the inferior 
stanzas, which are apparently no part of the 
original song; but this 1 do not urge, because 
the song is of sufficient length, though those 
inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be 
by the singer of taste. You must not think 
I expect all tLe songs to be of superlative 
merit ; that were an unreasonable expecta- 
tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit 
down doggedly to pen verser, and succeed 
«ell at all tior.es. 



I am highly pleased w'.th your humoroni 
and amorous rhapsody on "Bonnie Lesley :" 
it is a thousand times better than the 
" Collier's Lassie." "The Deil he cor.'d ua 
scaith thee," &c., is an eccentric and happy 
thought. Do you not think, however, that 
the names of such old heroes as Alexander 
sound rather queer, unless in pompous or 
mere burlesque verse? Listead of the Hue, 
"And never made anither," I would humbly 
suggest, "And ne'er made sic anither;" and 
I would fain have you substitute some otlier 
line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
verse, because I think this alteration of the 
orthography, and of the sound of Caledoiiiaj 
disfigures the word, and renders it Hudi- 
brastic. 

Of the other song, " My wife's a winsome 
wee thing," I think the first eight lines very 
good ; but I do not admire the other eight, 
because four of them are a bare repetition of 
the first verses. I have been trying to spin 
a stanza, but could make nothing better than 
the following: do you mend it, or, as Yorick 
did with the love letter, whip it up in your 
own way : — 

Oh leeze me on my wee thing, 
My bonnie blythesome, wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't. 
And may see raeikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself 
of the liberty, which you condescend to allow 
me, by speaking freely what I think. Be 
assured, it is not my disposition to pick out 
the faults of any poem or picture I see : my 
first and chief object is to discover and be 
delighted with the beauties of the piece. If 
I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, 
what, perhaps, you have written in haste, I 
may happen to observe careless lines, the 
reperusal of which might lead you to improve 
them. The wren will often see what has 
been overlooked by the eagle. I remain 
yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon " Highland Mary* 
are just come to hand: they breathe the 
genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, 
will last for ever. Such verses, united to 
such an air, with the delicate harmony of 
rieyel superadded, might form a treat worthy 
of being presented to Apollo himself. I have 
heard the sad story of your Mary; yoi 
always seem inspired when you write ol 
her. 




""(0^4^ 







TO MRS. DDISTLOP. 



38f 



NO. CCXlVHt 

BURNS TO MR. THOJISON. 

Dumfries, Dec. 1st, 1793. 

i'ora alteratioas of my " Nannie, O !" 
»re perfectly right. So are those of " My 
Wife's a winsome wee thin^?,." Your alter- 
ation of the second stanza is a positive 
iraprvivLiueiit. Now, my dear Sir, with the 
freedom which characterises our correspond- 
ence, I must not, cannot alter " Bonnie 
Lesley." You are right ; the word " Alex- 
ander" makes the line a little uncouth, but I 
think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, 
beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in 
the sublime language of Scripture, that " he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 
For nature made her what she is, 
And never made aaither. CSuch a person aa 
she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
"Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
immaterial: make it either way. "Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as 
could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; 
but I cannot help it. In short, that species 
of stanza is the most difficult that I have 
ever tried. 

The " Lea-rig" is as follows : — ■ 

[Here the poet repeats the first two stanzas, 
a Idiiig a third.'\ 

I am interrupted. Yours, &c. 



NO. CCXLIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December 4th, 1792. 

The forejjoing ["Auld Rob Morris "and 
" Duncan Gray,"] I submit, my dear Sir, to 
your better judgment. Acquit them, or con- 
demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
" Duncan Gray " is that kind of light-horse 
gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. 
The ludicrous is its ruling feature. 



NO. CCIk 

TO M)IS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries. Dec. 6th, 1792. 
I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I thmk, next 
veek; and, if at all possible, I shall ca^tainly. 



my much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure 

of visiting at Duulop-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
this world, that we have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I 
have not passed half the ordinary term ol 
an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look 
over the obituary of a newspaper, that 1 do 
not see some names that I have known, and 
which I, and other acquaintances, little 
thoiight to meet with there so soon. Every 
othe.v instance of the mortality of our kind, 
makes us cast an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder 
with apprehension for our own fate. But of 
how different an importance are the lives of 
different individuals ! Nay, of what im- 
portance is one period of the same life more 
than another? A few years ago I could 
have lain down in the dust, " careless of the 
voice of the morning ; " and now not a few, 
and these most helpless individuals, would, 
on losing me and my exertions, lose both 
their "staff and shield." By the way, these 
helpless ones have lately got an addition; 
Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl since I 
wrote you. There is a charming passage in 
Thomson's " Edward and Eleanora: " — 

"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ? " &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I 
shall give you another from the same piece, 
peculiarly — alas ! too peculiarly — apposite, 
my dear Madam, to your present frame of 
mind : — ■ 

" Who 80 unworthy but may proudly deck 

him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main ? The tempest 

comes, [the helm 

The rough winds rage aloud ; when from 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting. Heavens! if privileged from 

trial. 
How cheap a thing were virtue ! " 

I do not remember to have heard you 
mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up 
favourite quotations, and store them in my 
mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, 
amid the struggle of this turbulent exist- 
ence. Of these is one, a very favourite oa% 
from his " Alfred :* — 

" .\ttach thee firmly to the virtuous deeda 

And offices of life; to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose 

Probably I have quoted some of these tt 
you formei ly, as indeed, when I writt* f'aia 




liUiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiinhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiKiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiHii 




290 



COmESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such re- 
petitions. The compass of the heart, in the 
musical style of expression, is much more 
bounded than that of the imagination, so 
the notes of the former are eitremely apt 
to run into one anotlier ; but in return for 
the paucity of its compass, its few notes are 
much more sweet. I must still give you 
another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I cannot resist 
the temptation. The subject is religion — 
speaking of its importance to mankind, the 
author says : — 

Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I 
shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in 
this country here, have many alarms of the 
reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of 
your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we area 
good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble 
one, indeed. Heaven knows, but still so 
much as to gag me. What my private sen- 
timents are, you will find out without an 
interpreter. 

1 have taken up the subject, and the other 
day, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I 
wrote an address, which I will give on the 
other page, called " The Rights of VV^oman." 

I shall have the honour of receiving your 
criticisms in person at Duulop. R. B. 



TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., FINTRY. 

December, 1792. 

Sir — I have been surprised, confoimded, 
»nd distracted, by Mr. Mitchell, the col- 
lector, telling me that he has received an 
order from your Board (137) to inquire into 
my political conduct, and blaming me as a 
person disaffected to government. 

Sir, ycu are a husband, and a father. You 
kmw what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the 
world, degraded and disgraced from a situa- 
tion in which they had been respectable and 
respected, and left almost without the neces- 
sary support of a miserable existence. Alas, 
Sir ! must I think that such soon will be my 

lot ! and from the d , dark insinuations 

of hellish groundless envy too ! I believe, 
Bir, I may aver it, and in i\e sight of Omni- 
tiaettce, that I would not tell a deUberate 



falsehood, no, not though even worse hoi 
rors, if worse can be, than those I have 
mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, 
that the allegation, whatever villain has 
made it, is a lie ! To the British Constitu- 
tion, on revolution principles, next after my 
God, I am most devoutly attached. You, 
Sir, have been much and generously my 
friend ; Heaven knows how warmly I have 
felt the obligation, and how gratefully I 
have thanked you. Fortune, Sir, has made 
you powerful, and me impotent — has given 
you patronage, and m.e dependence. I would 
not, for my single self, call . on your hu- 
manity ; were such my insular, unconnected 
situation, I would despise the tear that now 
swells in my eye — I could brave misfortune, 
I could face ruin, for, at the worst, " Death's 
thousand doors stand open ; " but, good 
God ! the tender concerns that I have men- 
tioned, the claims and ties that I see at this 
moment, and feel around me, how they un- 
nerve courage and wither resolution ! To 
your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
you have allowed me a claim ; and your 
esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. 
To these. Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these 
may I adjure you to save me from that 
misery which threatens to overwlielm me, 
and which, with ray latest breath I will say 
it, I have not deserved. £. B. 



NO. CCLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, December Slst, 1792. 

Dear IMadam — A hurry of business, 
thrown in heaps by my absence, has until 
now, prevented my returning my grateful 
acknowledgments to tlie good family of 
Dunlop, and you, in particular, for that hos- 
pitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of 
the pleasantest I ever enjoyed. Alas, my 
dearest friend ! how few and fleeting are 
those things we call pleasures '. — on my road 
to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a friend 
wliom I much valued, a man whose days 
promised to be many ; and on Saturday las' 
we laid him in the dust I 

January 2nd, 1792. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, 
and feel much for your situation. However, 
I heartily rejoice in your prospect of reco- 
very from that vile jaundice. As to myself 
I am better, though not quite free of my 



TO MR. THOMSON. 



391 



Bomplair.t. Yoi must not think, as you 
seem to insinuate, that in my way of Vie I 
want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but 
occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. 
Against this I have again and again bent my 
resolution, and have greatly succeeded. 
Taverns I have totally abandoned : it is the 
private parties, in the family way, among the 
hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, 
that do me the mischief — but even this, I 
have more than half given over. (138) 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me 
Bt present ; at least I should be shy of ap- 
plying. I cannot possibly be settled as a 
supervisor for several years. I must wait 
the rotation of the list, and there are twenty 
o.ames before mine. I might, indeed, get a 
hh of officiating, where a settled supervisor 
N^as ill, or aged ; but that hauls me from my 
■»mily, as I could not remove them on such 
,\n uncertainty. Besides, some envious, ma- 
^cicKis devil, has raised a little demur on my 
^^.olitical principles, and I wish to let tliat 
Blatter settle before I offer myself too much 
in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, 
henceforth, a seal on ray lips, as to these 
uiilucky politics ; but to you, I must breathe 
my seLtiraents. In this, as in everything 
else, I ihall show the undisguised emotions 
of my tzvX. War I deprecate : misery and 
ruin to thousands are in the blast that 
announces the destructive demon. * * 
E.B. 



TO THE SAME. (135) 

January 5th, 1793. 

Yoc see my hurried life. Madam ; I can 
only c-oramand starts of tims : however, I 
am gljd CI one thing ; since I finished the 
other shv.'£t, the political blast that threat- 
ened my welfare is overblown. I have cor- 
responded, v/ith Commissioner Graham, for 
the board had made me the subject of their 
animadversions; and now I have the plea- 
sure of inforraiag you, that all is set to 
rights in that quarter. Now, as to these 

informers, may tl^e devil be let loose to 

But. hold i I was prayhig most fervently in 
my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall 
B-swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little <io the wantonly or idly 
officious think what mischief they do by 
their malicious insinuations, indirect imper- 
tinence, or thoughtless blabbiu^a. What a 



difference there :.s in intrinsic wort^i, can- 
dour, benevolence, generosity, kindness — in 
all the chanties and all the virtues — between 
one class of human beings and another. For 
instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed 
with in the hospitable hall of Dunlop, their 
generous hearts, their uncontaminated dig- 
nified minds, their informed and poLshed 
understandings — what a contrast, when 
compared — if such comparing were not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the 
miscreant who can deliberately plot the 
destruction of an honest man that never 
offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction 
see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, 
and prattling innocents, turned over to 
beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear iladam, arrived safe. 
I had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmaleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece among the 
descendants of William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that they in- 
sisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; 
and by and bye, never did your great 
ancestor !ay a suthron more completely to 
rest, than for a time did your cup my two 
friends. A-propos, this is the season of 
wishhig. May God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me, the humblest and 
sincerest of your friends, by granting you 
yet many returns of the season 1 May all 
good things attend you and yours, wherever 
they are scattered over the earth ! R. B. 



KO. CCLIV. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (140) 
January, 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you. my 
dear Sir. How comes on your publication ? 
— will these two foregoing be of any service 
to you ? I should like to know what songs 
you print to each tune, besides the verses to 
which it is set. In short, I would wish to 
give you my opinion on all the poetry yoi 
publish. You know it is my trade, and a 
man in the way of his trade may suggest 
useful hints that escape men of much supe- 
rior parts and endowments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much- 
valued Cunningham, greet him, in my name 
with the compliment* of the season. Youra 



293 



COKRESPONDENCE OF BUENS. 



NO. CCLV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
Edinburgh, January 20th, 1793. 

loD make me hap\iy, my dear Sir, and 
thonsnnds will be liappj, to see the charming 
songs you have sent me. Many merry 
returns of the season to you, and may you 
long continue among the sons and daughters 
of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour 
yourself. 

The four last songs with which you 
favoured me, "Auld Rob Morris," "Dun- 
can Gray," "Gala Water," and "Canld 
Kail," are admirable. Duncan is indeed a 
lad of grace, and his humour will endear 
him to every body. 

The distracted lover in "Auld Rob," and 
the happy shepherdess in " Gala Water," 
exhibit an excellent contrast : they speak 
from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch 
the beart. 

The number of songs which I had origi- 
nally in view was limited, but I now resolve 
to include every Scotch air and song worth 
singing ; leaving none behind but mere 
gleanings, to which the publishers of omniiim- 
gatherum are welcome. I would rather be 
the editor of a collection from wliich nothing 
could be taken away, than of one to which 
nothing could be added. We intend pre- 
senting the subscribers with two beautiful 
stroke engravings, the one characteristic of 
the plaintive, and the otlier of the lively 
songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of 
an essay upon the subject of our national 
music, if his health will permit him to write 
it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
less been called forth by particular events, 
or by the charms of peerless damsels, there 
must be many curious anecdotes relatmg to 
them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I 
believe, knew more of this than any body ; 
for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary 
a taste for poetry, besides being a man of 
the world, and possesshig an enthusiasm for 
music beyond most of his contemporaries. 
He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, 
for 1 may say it has been solely managed by 
me, alid we had several long conversations 
about it when it was in embryo. If I could 
simply mention the name of the heroine of 
each song, and the incident which occasioned j 
the verses, jt would be gratifying. Pray, 
will you serd me any information of this 
sort, as well with regard to your own songs 
as the old ones ? 

Tg all the favourite songs of the plaintive 



or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate 
accompaniments, &c., of Pleyel. To those 
of the comic and humorous class, I think 
accompaniments scar^-'ely necessary ; they 
are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the 
festive board, and a tuneful voice, with a 
proper delivery of the words, renders them 
perfect. Nevertheless, to these I proposa 
adding bass accompaniments, because then 
they are fitted either for singing, or for 
instrumental performance, when there hap- 
pens to be no singer. I mean to employ 
our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke, to sec the 
bass to these, which he assures me he will 
do coH amore, and with much greater atten- 
tion than he ever bestowed on any thing of 
the kind. But for this last class of airs I 
will not attempt to find more than one set 
of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has 
started I know not how many ditficulties 
about writing for the airs I sent to him, 
because of the peculiarity of their measure, 
and the trammels they oppose on his flying 
Pegasus. I subjoin, for your perusal, the 
only one I have yet got from him, being for 
the fine air, " Lord Gregory." The Scots 
verses printed with that air are taken from 
the middle of an old ballad, called "The 
Lass of Lochroyan," wliich I do not admire. 
I have set down the air, therefore, as a 
creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite 
songs are replete with wit and humour — 
might not the best of these be included in 
our volume of comic songs ? 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. ANDREW EESKINE. (141) 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to 
give me a perusal of your songs. " High- 
land Mary" is most enchantingly pathetic, 
and " Duncan Gray" possesses native genuine 
humour — " Spak o' lowphi' o'er a linn," is a 
line of itself that should make you immortal. 
I sometimes hear of you from our mutual 
friend Cunningham, who is a most excellent 
fellow, and possesses, above all men I know, 
the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
You kindly promised me, about a year ago^ 
a collection of your unpubhshed production^ 
religious and amorous, 1 know, from expe- 
rience, how irksome it is to copy. If you 
will get any trusty person in Dumfries to 
write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill 
whatever money he asks for his trouble, =and 
I certainly shall not betray your confidence 
1 am your hearty admirer, 

Anckew Euskinb. 




:ill"l"lliUHIIIIII!lll>iiiiiaillllllllllllllllllllllllillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll||||||||||||iililliiiiMii|||||||||||h^ 




TO CLARINDA. 



393 



HO. JCLVI. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

January 2Qth. 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your 
plan,!. Dr. Beattie's essay will, of itself, be 
a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up 
an appendix to the Doctor's essay, con- 
taining my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our 
Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's 
anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the 
course of my acquaintance with him, from 
his o\VTi mouth. I am such an enthusiast, 
that in the course of my several peregrina- 
tions through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage 
to the individual spot from which every song 
took its ri~e, "Lochaber," and the "Braes of 
Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of ihe air, or the tenor 
of the song, could bt; ascertained, I have 
paid my devotions at the particular shrine 
of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a 
very valuable collection of Jacobite songs ; 
but would it give no otfeuce ? In the mean- 
time, do not you think that some of them, 
jjarticularly "The sow's tail to Geordie," as 
an air, with other words, might be well worth 
B place in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of 
merit, it would be proper to have one set of 
Scots words to every air, and that the set of 
words to which the notes ought to be set. 
There is a ndivele, a pastoral simplicity, in a 
slight intermixture of Scots words and 
phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
least to my tast«, and, I will add, to every 
genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple 
pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native 
nusic, than any English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an 
acquisition to your work. (142) His " Gre- 
gory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you 
a set of stanzas in Scotch, on the same 
subject, which are at your service. Not 
that I intend to enter the lists with Peter — 
that would be presumption indeed. My 
8ong, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity 
in it. (143) 

[Here fellows " Lord GregotyJ'J 



NO. CCLVII. 

TO CLARINDA. (144) 

1793 
Before you ask me why I have not 
»nt ten you, first let me be iuforwed of you 



hoiv I shall write you? "In fi.endship," 
you say ; and I have many a time taken up 
my pen to try an epistle of friendship to 
vou : but it will not do : ' tis like Jo?e 
grasping a pop-gun, after having wielded 
his thunder. When I take up the pea, 
recollection ruins me. Ah ! my ever 
dearest Clarinda! Clarinda ! — what a host 
of memory's tenderest offspring, crowd on 
my fancy at that sound ! But I must iv4 
indulge that subject — you have forbid it. 

I am extremely happy to learn that your 
precious health is re-estahlished, and that 
you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfac- 
tion in existence, which health alone can 
give us. My old friend has indeed been 
kind to you. Tell him, that I envy him the 
power of serving you. I had a ie,.ter from 
him a while ago, but it was so dry, so 
distant, so like a card to one of his clients, 
that I could scarcely bear to read it, and 
have not yet answered it. He is a good 
honest fellow; and can write a friendly 
letter, which would do equal honour to his 
head, and his heart ; as a w hole sheaf of 
his letters I have by me will witness : and 
though Fame does not blow her trumpet at 
my approach now, as she did then, when he 
first honoured me with his friendship, yet I 
am as proud as ever ; and when I am laid 
in my grave, I wish to be stretched at my 
full length, that I may occupy every inch of 
ground which I have a right to. 

You would laugh were you to see me 
where I am just now ! — would to heaven 
you werj here to laugh with me ! though 
I am afraid that crying would be our first 
employment. Here am I set, a solitary 
hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary 
inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me — • 
as grave and as stupid as an owl, but, like 
that owl, still faithful to my old song. In 
contirmation of which, my dear Jlrs. Mack, 
here is your good health ! may the hand- 
waled benisons o' Heaven bless yoiu: bonnia 
face ; and the wretch wha skellies at your 
welfare, may tlie auld tinkler deil get him to 
clout his rotten heart ! Amen. 

You mu--c know, my dearest Madam, that 
these now many years, wherever I am, in 
whatever company, when a married lady is 
called on as a toast, I constantly give you ; 
but as your name has never passed my lips, 
even to my most intimate friend, I give you 
by the name of ilrs. Mack. This is so well 
known among my acquaintances, that when 
my married lady is called for, the toast- 
master will say — " O, we need not ask him 
who it is— here's Mr?,. Mack ! " I have 
also, among my couv vial frieads, set oa 




'^If^7 




S94 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS, 



foot a round of toasts, which I call a 
rouifd of Arcadian Shepherdesses ; that is, 
a rouud of favourite ladies, under female 
names celebrated in ancient songs ; and 
then, you are ray Clarinda. So, ray lovely 
Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a 
most ardent wish for your happiness ! 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a ceus'ring world, and bid me fear; 
Above that world on wings of love 1 rise. 
I know its worst, and can that worst despise. 
"Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd, unpitied, un- 

redrest, 
The niock'd quotation of the scorner's jest," 
Let Prudence' direst bodements on nie fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays themall !(145) 

I have been rhyming a little of late, but 
I do noi know if they are worth postage. — 
Tell me. • « * • 

• • • Sylvan DER. 



NO. CCLVIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

March Srd, 1793. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have not had time to write you 
farther. When I say that I had not time, 
that, as usual, means, that the three demons, 
indolence, business and ennui, have so 
completely shared my hours among them, as 
not to leave me a five minutes' fragment to 
take up a pen in. 

Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying 
upwards with the renovating year. Now, 
I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's 
songs. I dare say he tlsinks I have used 
him unkindly ; and, I must own, with too 
much appearance of truth. A-propos, do 
you know the much-admired old Highland 
air called " The Sutor's Dochter ? " It is a 
first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best 
songs to it. I will send it to you as it was 
sung, with great applause, in some fashion- 
able circles, by Major Robertson, of Lude, 
who was here with his corps. 

There was one commission that I must 
trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable 
seal, a prtaent from a departed friend, wliich 
vexes me much. I have gotten one of your 
Highland pebbles, which I fancy would 
make a very decent one, and I want to cut 
my armorial bearing on it : will you be so 
obliging as in ^uire vvliat will be the expense 
of such a business? I do not know that 



my name is matriculated, as the heralds call 
it, at all, but I have invented arms for my- 
self; so, you know, I shall be chief of the 
name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will 
Tikewise be entitled to supporters. These, 
however, I do not intend having on my seal 
I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, 
secundum artem, my arms. On a field, 
azure, a holy bush, seeded, proper, in base ; 
a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, 
also proper, in chief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig 
of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes; 
round the top of the crest. Wood notes 
wild; at the bottom of the shield, in the 
usual place. Better a wee bush than nae Meld. 
(14G) By the shepherd's pipe and crook, I 
do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
Arcadia, but a stock and Jiorn, and a club, 
such as you see at the head of Allau 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the 
" Gentle Shepherd." By the bye, do you 
know Allan? (147) He must be a man of 
very great genius. Why is he not the more 
known? Has he no patrons? — or do 
" Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain 
beat keen and heavy " on him ? I once, 
and but once, got a glance of that noble 
edition of the noblest pastoral in the world ; 
and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my 
pocket, I would have bought it but I was 
told that it was printed and engraved for 
subscribers only. He is the only artist 
who has hit genuine pastoral costume. 
What, ray dear Cunningham, is there in 
riches, that they narrow and harden the 
heart so ? I think, that were I as rich as 
the sun, I should be as generous as the 
day ; but as I have no reason to imagine 
my soul a nobler one than any other man's, 
I must conclude that wealth inipirts a bird- 
lime quality to the possessor, at' which the 
man, in his native poverty, would have 
revolted. WTiat has led me to this is th6 
idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or government 
contractor possesses, and why they do not 
form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter 
and cherish unprotected merit, and the 
gratitude and celebrity of that merit will 
richly repay it. R. B. 



NO. CCLIX. 

BURNS TO MR THOMSON 

March 20th, 1793. 

My dear Sir — Tl e song prefi.\ed [" Mary 
Morisou "J is one of my juvenile works ( 








TO MRS. BUENS. 



895 



(eave it in your hands. I do not think it 
rery remaikable, either for its merits or 
dements. It is impossible (at least, I feel it 
80 in my stinted powers) to be always 
oriijinal, entertaining, and witty. 

'What is become of the list, &c., of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with 
you by and bye. I have always looked on 
myself as the prince of indolent corres- 
pondents, and valued myself accordingly ; 
end I will not, can not, bear rivalship from 
you, flor any body else. B. B. 



NO. CCLX. 

TO MISS BENSON, 

SINCE MRS. BASIL MONTAGU. 

Dumfries, March 21st, 1793. 

Mab am — Among many things for which 
I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows 
before the flood, is this, in particular — that 
when tliey met with anybody after their own 
heart, they had a cliarming long prospect of 
many, many happy meetings with them in 
after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter-day of 
onr fleeting existence, when you, now and 
then, in the cliapter of accidents, meet an 
individual whose acquaintance is a real ac- 
quisition, there are all the probabilities 
against you, that you shall never meet with 
that valued character more. On the other 
hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is 
none of the least of the miseries belonging 
to it, that if there is any miscreant wiiom 
you hate, or creature whom you despise, the 
ill-run of the chances shall be so against 
yon, that in the overtakings, turnings, and 
jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, 
eternally comes the wretch upon you, and 
will not allow your indignation or contempt 
a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy be- 
lie.er in the powers of darkness, I take these 
to be the doings of that old author of mis- 
thief, the devil. It is well known that he 
has some kind of short-hand way of taking 
down our thoughts; and I make no doubt, 
that he is perfectly acquainted with my sen- 
timents respecting Miss Benson : how much 
I admired her abilities and valued her worth, 
and how very fortunate I thought myself in 
her acquaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear ]\Iadam, I must entertain no hopes of 
the very gre«t pleasure of laeeting with you 
•gain. 

Miss Hamiltou tells me that she is send- 



ing a packet to-you, and I beg leave to send 
you the enclosed sonnet : though to tell yoa 
the real truth, the S(mnet is a mere pre- 
tence, that I may have the opportuu'ty of 
declaring with how much respectful esteem 
1 have the honour to be, &c. R. B. 



NO. CCLXl. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

March, 1793. 
"WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awi 
hame; 
Come to my bosom, my ane only dearie, 
And tell me thou briugs't me my Willie 
the same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our 

parting ; [my ee : 

It was na the blast brought the tear in 

Now welcome the simmer, and Welcome my 

Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest, in the cave o' yout 
slumbers ! 
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 
Awaken, ye breezes ! rool gently, ye billows ' 
And waft my dear laddie, auce mair to my 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
Oh still flow between us, thou wide-roar- 
ing main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 
ain! 

I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to deter 
mine whether the above, or the old " Thro^ 
the lang muir" (148j, be the best. 



MO. CCLXII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. (149) 

Edinburgh, April 2d, 1793. 

I "WILL not recogni?? the' title you give 
yourself, " the prince of Mdolent correspon- 
dents ; " but if the adjective were taken 
away, I think the title would then fit you 
exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you 
can furu jsh anecdotes ndtti respec^ to most 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



«f the souga : these ^lU be a literary curi- 
osity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, 
which, I belie fe, will be found nearly com- 
plete. I have put down the first lines of all 
the English songs which 1 propose giving, 
in addition to the Scotch verses. If any 
others occur to you, better adapted to the 
character of the airs, pray mention thera, 
when ycu favour me with your strictures 
upon everything else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
ments added to them. I wish you were 
here, tliat I might serve up some of thera to 
you with your own verses, by way of dessert 
after dinner. There is so much delightful 
fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate 
limplicity in the accompaniments — tliey are 
indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several 
last productions of your muse : your " Lord 
Gregory," in my estimation, is more inte- 
resting than Peter's, beautiful as his is. 
Your " Here awa, Willie," must undergo 
some alterations to suit the air. Mr. 
Ersliiue and I have been conning it over : 
he will suggest what is necessary to make 
them a fit match. (150) 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well 
pleased, both with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volunteered 
his assistance, and has already written four 
Boiigs for it, which, by Ida own desire, I send 
for your perusal. (151) 



NO. CCLSIII. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Apiil 7'h, 1793. 

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet, 
ion cannot iuuigine how much this business 
of composing fur your publication has added 
to my enjoyments. What with my early 
attachment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad- 
making is now as completely my hobby- 
horse as ever fortilicatiou was Uncle Toby's ; 
BO I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the 
limit of my race — God grant that I may 
take the right side of the winning post ! — ■ 
and then cheerfully looking back on the 
honest folks with whom I have been happy, 
I shall say or sing, " Sae merry as we a' hae 
been ! " and, raising my last looks to the 
whole human race, the last words of the 
»oice of " Coila" (152) shall be, "Good night, 
•ad joy be wi' you a' ! " So much for my 



last words : now for a few present remark* 
as they have occurred at random, on looking 
over your list. 

The iirst lines of " The last time I came 
o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, 
are beautiful ; but, in my opinion — pardon 
me, revered shade of Ramsay ! — the song ia 
unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to 
make or mend. " For ever, fortune, wilt 
thou prove," is a charming song ; but 
" Logan burn and Logan braes " is sweetly 
susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try tl-at 
likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. I re- 
member the two last lines of a verse in some 
of the old songs of " Logan Water " (for 1 
know a good many different ones) wAich I 
thiuk pretty : — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

" My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal 
" His mind is never muddy," is a muddy ex- 
pression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate 
And syne my cockernony — " 

This is surely far imworthy of Ramsay, t>r 
your book. 

" Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 

parting, [ee ; 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 

Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your 

slumbers 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken, ye breezes ! roll gently, ye billows ! 

And waft my dear laddie auce mair to my 

arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds nae his 

Nannie, [maui ! 

Flow still between us, thou wide roaring 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 

ain." (153) 

My song, "Riga of Barley," to the same 
tune, does not altogether please me ; but if 
I can mend it, and thrash a few loose Senti- 
ments out of it, I will submit it to your 
consideration. " The lass o' Paties mill " ia 
one of Ramsay's best songs ; but .here is 
one loose sentiment in it, which my much- 
valueil friend Mr. Erskme will tal e into his. 
critical consideration. In Sir John Sniclair'i 
statistical volumes, are two claims — one, I 
think, from Aberdcuslure. and the o'het 



TO JOHN FE.\NCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. 



397 



from Ayrshire — for the honoiir of this song. 
The following- anecdote, which I had from 
the present Sir Wilha.m Cunningham of 
Robertland, who had it ot the late John 
Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, 
believe : — 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon- 
fastle with the then Earl, father to Earl 
John ; and one forenoon, riding, or walking, 
out together, his lordship and Allan passed a 
sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still 
calkd " Patie's mill," where a bonnie lass 
was ''tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." 
My lord observed to Allan, that it would be 
a line theme for a song. Ramsay took the 
hint, and, lingering behind, he composed 
the first sketch of it, which he produced at 
dinner. 

" One day I heard Mary say," is a fine 
song ; but, for consistency's sake, alter the 
name " Adonis." Were there ever such 
banns published, as a purpose of marriage 
betweeii Adonis and Mary I I agree with 
you that my song, " There's nought but care 
on every hand," is much superior to " Puir- 
tith cauld." The original song, "The mill, 
mill, O! " though excellent, is, on account 
of delicacy, inadmissible; still, I like the 
title, and think a Scottish song would suit 
the notes best ; and let .your chosen song, 
which is very pretty, follow as an English 
set. " The bap.ks of the Dee," is, you know, 
literally " Laiigolee," to slow time. The 
song is well enough, but has some false 
imagery in it ; for instance : 

Aud sweetly the nightingale sang from the 
tree. 

lu the first place, the nightingale sings in 
a low bush, but never from a tree ; and in 
the second place, there never was a nightin- 
gale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, 
or on the banks of any other river in Scot- 
laud. Exotic rural imagery is always com- 
paratively flat. If I could hit on another 
stanza, equal to " The small birds rejoice,' 
&c., I do myself honestly avow, that I think 
it a superior song. (154) "John Anderson, 
my jo ;" — the song to this tune in Johnson's 
Museum, is my composition, and I think it 
not my worst : if it suit you, take it and 
welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic song, is, in my opinion, very 
complete; but not so your comic ones. 
Where are " TuUochgorum," " Lumps o' 
puddin," " Tibbie Fowler," and several 
others, which, in my humble judgment, are 
well worthy of preservation ? There is also 
one sentimental song of mine in the Mu- 
Mum. which never was known out of the 



immediate neighhourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. 
It is called " Cragieburn wood," and, in th« 
opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest 
Scottish Songs. He is quite an enthusiast 
about it; and I would take his taste in 
Scottish music against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last 
five in your list, though they are certainly 
Irish. " Shepherds. I have lost my love 1 " 
is to me a heavenly air- -what woidd you 
think of a set of Scottish verses to it ? I 
have made one to it, a good while ago, 
which I think * * *, but in its original 
state, it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose 
an altered, not amended copy for you, if you 
choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. (155) 

Mr. Erski'.ie's songs are all pretty, but his 
" Lone vale " is divine. Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these ran- 
dom hints. 



NO. CCLXIV. 

TO PATRICK MILLER, Es», 

OF DALSWINTON. 

Buw fries, April, 1793. 

Sir — ]\Iy poems having just come out in 
another edition, will you do me the honour 
to accept of a copy ? A mark of my grati- 
tude to you, as a gentleman to whose good- 
ness I have been much indebted ; of my 
respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, 
sliding age, stands forth the champion of the 
libertiesof ray country; and of my veneration 
for you as a man, whose benevolence of heart 
does hcmour to human nature. 

There was a time. Sir, when I was your 
dependent : this language tlien would have 
been like the vile incense of flattery — I could 
not have used it. Now that that connexion 
(150) is at an end, do me the honour to 
accept of this Itonest tribute of respect from, 
Sir, your much indebted humble servant, 
B. B. 



KO. CCLXV. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE Esa, 

OP MAR. (157) 

Dumfries, April 13th, 1793. 

Sir — Degenerate as human nature is said 
to be — and. in many instances, worthless aiu) 




m^W c-^ — ^"^ 



199 



OOERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



unprincipled it i« — still there are brigtt 
examples to the contrary ; examples that, 
eveu ill the eyes of superior beings, must 
shed a lustre on the name of man. 

Such an example have I now before me, 
when you. Sir, came forward to patronise 
and befriend a distant obscure stranger, 
merely because poverty liad made him help- 
less, and his British hardihood of mind had 
provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. 
My much esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of 
Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a 
letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the 
silent throb of gratitude ; for words would 
but mock the emotions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final 
dismission from the Excise; I am still in the 
service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a 
gentleman, who must be known to you, Mr. 
Graham of Fintry — a gentleman who has 
ever been my warm and generous friend — I 
had, without so much as a hearing, or the 
sligiitest previous intimation, been turned 
adrift, with my helpless family, to all tlie 
horrors of want. Had 1 had any other re- 
source, probably I might have saved them 
the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
mouey I gained by publication, is my almost 
every guinea, embarked to save from ruin 
an only brother, who, though one of the 
worthiest, is by no means one of the most 
fortunate of men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
that whatever might be my sentiments of 
republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I 
abjured the idea, that a constitution, 
which, in its original principles, experience 
had proved to be every way fitted for our 
happiness iu society, it would be insanity to 
sacrilice to an untried visionary theory — 
that, ill consideration of my being situated 
in a department, however humlile, immedi- 
ately in the hands of people in power, I had 
forborne taking any active part, either per- 
sonally or as an author, in the present 
business of keform. But that, where I 
must declare my sentiments, I would say, 
there existed a system of corruption be- 
tween the executive power and the re|,re;en- 
tative part of the legislature, which boded 
no good to our glorious constitution, 
and which every patriotic Briton must wish 
to see amended. Some such sentiments as 
these, I stated in a letter to my generous 
patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
the Board at large, where, it seems, my last 
remark gave great oifence ; and one of our 
§upervisors general, a ilr. Corbet, was in- 
structed to inquire on the spot, and to docu- 
""«it lufij "that my buivnesa waa to act, not 



to think ; aad that, whatever might be mea 
or measures, it was for me to be silent and 
obedient." 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend, 
so between Mr. Graham and him, I have 
been partly forgiven : only I understand f.hat 
all hopes of my getting officially forward 
are blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I 
would more immediately interest you. The 
partiality of my countrymen has brought 
me forward as a man of genius, and has 
given me a character to support. In the 
poet I have avowed manly and independent 
sentiments, which I trust will be found in 
the MAN. Reasons of no less weight than 
the support of a wife and family, have 
pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
was, tlie only eligible, line of life for me, my 
present occupation. Still, my honest fame ia 
my dearest concern ; and a thousand times 
have I trembled at the idea of those de- 
I grading epithets that malice or misrepresenta- 
tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
blasting anticipation, listened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of 
savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling 
paragraphs — "Burns, notwithstanding the 
fanfaronade of independence to be found in 
his works, and after having been held forth 
to public view, and to public estimation, as a 
man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of 
resouices within himself to support his bor- 
rowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry ex- 
ciseman, and slunk out the rest of his 
insignificant existence in the meanest of pur- 
suits, and among the vdest of mankind." 

In your illustrious hands. Sir, permit me 
to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these 
slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor 
man from bhtli, and an exciseman by iieces- 
sity ; but — I will say it ! — the sterling of his 
honest worth no poverty could debase ; a.id 
his independent British mind, oppression 
might bend, but could not subdue. Have 
nor I, to me, a more precious stake in my 
country's welfare, than the richest dukedom 
in it ? I have a large family of children, 
and the prospect of many more. I have 
three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit 
the bodies of slaves. Can I look tamely 
on, and see any machination to wrest from 
them the birthright of my boys — the little 
independent Britons, in whose veins runs 
my own blood ? No ! I vill uotj should my 
heart's blood stream around my attecipt to 
defend it I 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 
can be of uo service, and that it does not 



iiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii^iiiiiiiiiiiiaiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii^^^ 



TO MR THOMSON. 



^9 



lelcnj^ to my humble station to medie 
tyith the concern of a nation? 

I can tell him, that it is on such indivi- 
duals as I that a nation has to rest, hoth 
for the hand of support and the eye of in- 
telligence. The uumformed mob may swell 
a nation's bulk; and the titled, tinsel, 
r.ourtly throng may be its feathered orna- 
ment; but the number of those who are 
elevatsd enough in life to reason and to 
reilect, yet low enough to keep clear of the 
venal contagion of a court — these are a 
nation's strength ! 

I know not how to apologise for the im- 
pertinent length of this epistle ; but one 
small request I must ask of you farther : — 
when you have honoured this letter with 
a perusal, please to commit it to the flames. 
Burns, in whose behalf you have so gene- 
rously interested yourself, I have here, in his 
native colours, drawn as he is; but should 
any of the people in whose hands is the 
very bread he eats, get the least knowledge 
of the picture, it would ruin the poor bard 
for ever ! 

My poems having just come out in another 
edition, 1 beg leave to present you with a 
copy, as a small mark of that high esteem 
and ardent gratitude with which 1 have the 
honour to be. Sir, your deeply indebted 
and ever devoted humble servant, B, B. 



NO. CCLXTI. 

MR. THOJISON TO BURNS. 

Ediiihiirgh, April, 1/93. 

I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that 
ballad-making continues to be your hobby- 
horse. Great pity 'twould be were it other- 
wise. I hope you will amble it away for 
many a year, aud "witch the world with 
your horsemanship." 

I know there are a good many lively 
•ongs of merit that I have not put down in 
the list sent you ; but I have them all in my 
eye. " My Paf.ie is a lover gay," though a 
'little unequal, is a natural and very pleasing 
song, and I humbly think we ought not 
to displace or alter it, ex^pt the last 
Stanza. (158) 



NO. CCLXVII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. 
\ shall answer it aud vour former letter, in 

3 



my desultory way. of saying whatever Cornea 
uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes want- 
ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call a 
starting-note, is often a rub to us poor 
rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander through the blooming 
heather," 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow brsfsa, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, "Here awa, there awa," sa 
amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve 
of, and return you. {159j 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is, in my opinion, 
reprehensible. You know I ought to know 
something of my own trade. Of pathos, 
sentiment and point, you are a complete 
judge ; but there is a quality more necessary 
than either in a song, and which is the very 
essence of a ballad — I mean simplicity : 
now, if I mistake not, this last feature you 
are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Kamsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always iqually happy in his pieces ; still, I 
cannot Approve of taking such liberties with 
an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with 
"The last time I came o'er the moor." Let 
a poet, if l>e chooses, take up the idea of 
another, and work it into a piece of his 
own ; but to mangle the works of the poor 
bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for 
ever, in the dark and narrow house — by 
Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I grant that 
Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; but I 
know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; • 
let him mend the song, as the High:ander 
mended his gnu — he gave it a new stock, a 
new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out 
improper stanzas, where that can be done 
without spoiling the whole. One stanza in 
"The lass o' Patie's mill" must be left out: 
the song will be nothing worse for it. I am 
not sure if we can take the same liberty 
with " Corn rigs are bonnie." Perhaps it 
might want the last stanza, and be the 
better for it. "Cauld kail in Aberdeen," 
you must leave with me yet a while. I have 
vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate m the 
verses, " Puirtith cauld and restless love." 
At any rate, my other song, " Green grow 
the rashes," will never suit. That song is 
current hi Scotland under the oil title, aud 
to tl[i£ merry old tune of that name, wiiiclt 








m 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of course, would mar the progress of your 
Bong to celebrity. Your book will be the 
standard of Scots songs for the future : let 
this idea ever keep your judgment on the 
tlarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit " Bonnie Dundee." I send 
you also a ballad to the "Mill, Mill, 
0!"(1GO) 

" The last time I came o'er the moor," I 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song 
for, and let Ramsay's be the Engli•^h set. 
You shall hear from me soon. ^Vhen you 
go to London on this business, can you 
come by Dumfries? I have still eeveral 
MS. Scots airs by me, which I have jiicked 
up, mostly from the singing of country 
lasses. They please me vastly ; but your 
learned lags (161) would perhaps be dis- 
pleased with the very feature for which I 
like them. I call them simple; you would 
pronounce them silly. Do you know a tine 
air called "Jackie Hume's Lament?" I 
have a song of considerable merit to that 
air. I'll enclose you both the song and 
tune, as I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Museum. (162) I send you like- 
wise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I 
had taken down fi-oni vivd voce. (163) 
Adieu. 



WO. CCLXVIII. 

BURNS TO MR. TH0:MS0N. (164) 

[Here the poet iKSerts the song, beginning 
"Farewell, thou Stream that winding 
flows."] 

April, 1793. 

My dear Sir — I had scarcely put my 
last letter into the post office, when I took 
up the subject of " The last time I came o'er 
the moor," and, ere 1 slept, drew the outlines 
of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, 
1 leave on this, as on every other occasion, 
to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
flattered, when you give my songs a place in 
your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
service to the work is my first wish. As I 
have often told you, I do not in a single 
instance wish you, out of compliment to me, 
to insert any thing of n)ine. One hint let 
me give you — whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let 
him not alter one iota of the original Scottish 
airs, I mean in the song department, but let 
our national music preserve its native 
features. They arc, I own, frequently wild 
■ad irreducible to the more modem rules ; 



but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, j» 
pends a great part of their effect. 



KO. CCLXIS. 



MR THOiNISON TO BURNS, 

Edinburgh, April 26th, 1793. 

I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, fol 
your last two letters, and the songs which 
accompanied them. I am always both in- 
structed and entertained by your observa- 
tions ; and the frankness with which you 
speak out your mind, is to me highly agree- 
able. It is very possible I may not have the 
true idea of simplicity in composition. I 
confess there are several songs, of Allan 
Ramsay's for example, that I think silly 
enough, which another person, more con- 
versant than I have been with country 
people, would perhaps call simple and 
natural. But the lowest scenes of simple 
nature will not please generally, if copied 
precisely as they are. The poet, like the 
painter, must select what will form an agree- 
able, as well as a natural picture. On this 
subject it were easy to enlarge ; b>it, at 
present, suffice it to say, that I consider 
simplicity, rightly understood, as a most 
essential quality in composition, and tlie 
groundwork of beauty in all the arts. I 
will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
new ballad, " Wheii wild war's deadly blast," 
&c., to the "Mill, Mill, O!" as well as the 
two other songs to- their respective airs ; but 
the third and fourth lines of the first verse 
must undergo some little alteration in order 
to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a 
single note of the songs. That would be 
absurd indeed ! With the airs which he 
introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to 
take such liberties as he pleases ; but that 
has nothing to do with the songs. 

P.S. I wish you would do as you pro- 
posed with your " Rigs of Barley." If tlia 
loose sentiments are thrashed out of it, I 
will find au air for it; but as to this there ia 
no hurry. 



NO. ccucx 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26th, 1793. 

I AM out of humour, my dear Ainslie, 

and that is the reason why I take up the 




^^ 







^j^ 



TO MISS KEXNEDT. 



4m 



pen to you : 'tis the nearest way (jprohatum 
tst) to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much enter- 
tained with it ; but I will not at this time, 
nor at any other time, answer it. Answer a 
letter ! — I never could answer a letter in my 
life. I have written many a letter in return 
for letters I have received ♦ but then — they 
were original matter — spurt-away ! — zig, 
here, zag, there — as if the devil, that my 
grainiie (an old woman, indeed) often told 
me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or, in her more 
classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking over 
my elbow. Happy thought that idea has 
engendered in my head! Spunkie, thou 
•halt henceforth be my symbol, signature, 
and tutelary genius ! Like thee, hop-step- 
and-loup, here-awa-there-awa, higgledy-pig- 
gledy, pell-mell, hither-and-yoiit, ram-stam, 
happy-go-lucky, up tails-a'-by-the-light-o'- 
the-raoou — has been, is, and shall be, my 
progress through the mosses and moors of 
this vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of 
ours. 

Come, then, my guardian spirit ! like 
thee, may I skip away, amusing myself by 
and at my own light ; and if any o|)aque- 
souled lubber of mankind complain that my 
elfin, lambent, glimmerous wanderings have 
misled his stupid steps over precipices or 
into bogs, let the thick-headed Blunder- 
buss recollect that he is not Spunkie : — 
that 

Spdnkie's wanderings could not copied 

be : 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he. 



I have no dorbt but Scholarcraft may be 
caught, as a Sctsman catches the itch, by 
friction. How else can you account for it, 
that bom blockheads, by mere dint of hand- 
ling books, grow so wise that even they 
themselves are equally con\inced of, and 
surprised at their own parts ? I once carried 
this philosophy to that degree, that in a 
knot of country folks who had a library 
amongst them, and who, to the honour of 
their good sense, made me factotuui in the 
business, — one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, I edvised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to bind the book on his back. 
Johnnie took the hint, and as our meetings 
were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklou.se 
having a good Scots mile to walk in coming, 
and, of course, another in returning. Bodkin 
was sure to lay his feaM on some heavy 
tuarto it ponderous folio aith, and undei 

D O 



which, wrapt in his grey plaid, he grew wise, 
as he grew weary, all the way home. He 
carried this so far, that an old musty Hebrej 
concordance, which we had in a present from 
a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of ap- 
plying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, 
between his shoulders. Stitch, in a dozen 
pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theo 
logy as the said priest had done by forty 
years' perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
of this theory. Youn^ Spuniub. 



NO. CCLXXI. 



TO MISS KENNEDY. 

Madam — Permit me to present you with 
the enclosed song, as a small though grateful 
tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. 
I have, in these verses, attempted some faint 
sketches of your portrait in the unembel- 
lished, simple manner of descriptive truth. 
Flattery 1 leave to your lovers, whose 
exaggerating fancies may make them imagine 
you still nearer perfection than you really 
are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most 
forcibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they 
are really poets of nature's making, their 
feelings must be finer, and their taste more 
delicate, than most of the world. In the 
cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive 
mildness of autumn, the grandeur of sum 
MER, or the hoary majesty of winter, thft 
poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of 
his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, 
or the company of a fine woman (by far the 
finest part of God's works below), have sen- 
sations for the poetic heart that the hkrd 
of men are strangers to. On this last ac- 
count, Madam, I am, as in many other 
things, indebted to j\Ir. Hamilton's kindness 
in introducing me to you. Your lovers may 
view you with a wish, I look on you with 
pleasure ; their hearts, in your preseixe 
may glow with desure, mine rises with admi- 
ration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however 
they should, as incident to humanity, glance 
a slight wound, may never reach your /'curt 
— that the snares of villany may never beset 
you in the road of hfe — that innocexcb 
may hand you by the path of honour to 
the dwelling of peace — is the sincere wish 
of him who has the honour to be, &c. 








102 



COEEESPONDENCE OF BUENS. 



NO. CCLXXII. 

BURN3 TO Ma. THOMSON. 
* June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that • 
friend of mine, in whom I am much in- 
terested, has fallen a sacrifice to these 
accursed times, you will easily allow that it 
might unhinge me for doing any good 
araong ballads. My own loss, as to pecu- 
niary matters, is trifling ; bixt the total ruin 
of a m\ich-loved friend is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the 
"Mill, Mill, O!" (163) What you think a 
defect, I esteem as a positive beauty; so 
you see how doctors differ. 1 shall now, 
with as much alacrity as 1 can muster, go 
on with your commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band 
of music for a fencible corps quartered in 
this county. Among many of his airs that 
please me, there-is one, well known as a reel, 
by the name of " The Quaker's Wife;" and 
which, I remember, a grand-aunt of mine 
used to sing, by the name of " Liggeram 
Cosh, my bonnie wee lass."_ Mr. Prazer 
plays it slow, and with an expression that 
quite charms me. 1 became such an enthu- 
siast about It, that ] made a song for it, 
which I here subjoin, and enclose Frazer's 
set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, 
they are at your service ; if not, return me 
the tune, and I will put it in Johnson's 
Museum. 1 think the song is not iu my 
Worst manner. 
[Here Burns insertu the song " Blyihe hue I 

been on yon Hill."^ 

I should wish to hear how this pleases 
fou. 



NO. CCLXXIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June 25th, 1793. 

Havb you ever, my dear Sir, felt your 
bosom ready to burst with indignation, on 
reading of those mighty villains who divide 
kingdom against, kingdom, desolate pro- 
vinces, and lay aations waste, out of the 
wantonness of ambition, or often from still 
more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
Kind to-day 1 recollected the air of " Logan 
Water/' and it uccurrti to me that its 



querulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some 
swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic 
strides of some public destroyer, and over- 
whelmed with private distress, the conse- 
quence of a country's ruin. If I have done 
any thing at all like justice to my feelings, 
the following song, composed in three-quar- 
ters of an hour's meditation in my elbow- 
chair, ought to have some merit : — 
[_Here is inserted the song, " Logan Braet.''] 
Do you know the following beautiful 
little fragment, in Witherspoon's coUectioD 
of Scots songs ? 

Air — " Hughie Graham." 
"Oh gin my love were yon red rose. 
That grows upon the castle wa'; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to f»' ! 

Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the niglit, 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
TiU fley'd awa by Phrebus' light!" 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; 
and quite, so far as I know, original. It is 
too sliort for a song, else I would forswear 
you altogether, unless you gave it a place. 
I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but 
in vain. After balancing myself for a musing 
five minutes, on the hind-legs of my elbow- 
chair, I produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the fore- 
going, I frankly confess ; but if worthy of 
insertion at all, they might be first in place ; 
as every poet who knows any thing of lu > 
trade, will husband his best thoughts for » 
concluding stroke. 

Oh were my love yon lilac fdir, 

Wi' purp"e blossoms to the spring; 

And I, a biid to shelter there, 
Wlien wearied on my little wing ! 

How 1 wad moufn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youtixfu' May its bloom renewed. 



NO. CCLXXIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Monday, July 1st, 1793. 

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, tha* 
any tiling should happen to unhinge you 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



40S 



The times are terribly out of tune, and when 
harmony will be restored, Heaven iiuows. 

The first book of songs, just published, 
will be dispitched to you along with this. 
Let me be favoured with your opinion of it, 
fiankly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song 
you have wTitten for the "Ciuaker's Wife;" 
it is quite enchanting. Pray, will you return 
the list of songs, with such airs added to it 
as you think ought to be included? The 
biisniess now rests entirely on myself, the 
gentlemen who originally agreed to join the 
speculation having requested to be otf. No 
matter, a loser 1 cannot be. The superior 
excellence of the work will create a general 
demand for it, as soon as it is properly 
known ; and were the sale even slower than 
it promises to be, I should be somewhat 
compensated for my labour, by the pleasure 
I shall receive from the music. I cannot 
express how much 1 am obliged to you for 
the exquisite new songs you are sending 
me; but thanks, my friend, are a poor 
return for wiiat you have done — as I shall 
be benefited by the publication, you must 
suifer me to enclose a small mark of my 
gratitude (166|, and to repeat it afterwards 
when I find it convenient. Do not return 
it, for, by Heaven ! if you do, our corres- 
pondence is at an end ; and though this 
would be no loss to you, it would mar the 
publication, which, under your auspices, can- 
not fail to be respectable and interesting. 

Wednesday Morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional 
verses to tlie old fragment, and for your 
excellent song to " Logan Water :" — Thom- 
son's truly elegant one will follow for the 
English singer. Your apostrophe to states- 
men is admirable, but I am not sure if it is 
quite suitable to the supposed gentle cha- 
racter of the fair mourner who speaks it. 



no. ccLxzv. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July 2nd, 1793. 

Mr DEAR SiK — I have just finished the 
following bjiUad, and, as I do think it in my 
best style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who 
wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's 
wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has 
given it a celebrity by teachuig it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If 
you do not like the air enough to give it a 



place in your collection, pleasi; return it 
The song you may keep, as I remember it 

[Here follows the song of'Borinie Jeany] 

I have some thoughts of inserting in 
your index, or in my notes, the names of 
the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I 
do not mean the name at full ; but dashes 
or asterisks, so as ingenuity may find then 
out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M, 
daughter to Mr. M., of D., one of youT 
subscribers. I have not painted her in the 
rank which she holds in life, but in the dress 
and character of a cottager. 



>ro. CCLXXVI. 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 

I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you 
truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. 
It degrades me in my own eyes. However, 
to return it would savour of afiTectation; 
but, as to any more traffic of that debtor 
and creditor kind, I swear, by that Honour 
which crowns the upright statue of Robert 
Burns's Integrity — on the least motion 
of it, I will indignantly spurn the bypast 
transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to you ! Burns's 
character for generosity of sentiment and 
independence of mind, will, I trust, long 
outlive any of his wants which the cold 
unfeeling ore can supply : — at least, I will 
take care that such a character he shall 
deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publican 
tion. Never did my eyes behold in any 
musical work such elegance and correctness. 
Your preface, too, is admirably written, only 
your partiality to me has made you say too 
much : however, it will bind me down to 
double every efl'ort in the future progress of 
the work. The following are a few remarks 
on the songs in the list you sent me. I 
never copy what I write to you, so I may 
be often tautological, or perhaps con- 
tradictory. 

" The Flowers o' the Forest," is charming 
as a poem, and should be, and must be, set 
to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, 
the three stanzas beginning, 

"I have seen the smding 0* fctujie b»" 
guiling," 




' iiiiiiiiiii!i;niiiiiiiiiiiii;iiiiii!ii!:iii 




104 



CORRESPONDENCF OF BURNS. 



are worthy of R place, were it but to im- 
mortalise the author of them, who is an old 
lady of my acquaintance, and at this 
raome'it living in Edinburgh. Slie is a 
Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of vrhit place, but 
from Roxburghshire. (167) What a charm- 
ing apostrophe is 

"Oh fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment U3, poor sous of a day ! " 

The old ballad, "I wish I were where 
Helen lies," is silly, to contemptibility. My 
alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much 
better. Mr. Piukerton, in his, what he calls, 
ancient ballads (many of them notorious, 
though beautifid enough, forgeries), has the 
best set. It is fidl of his own interpolations 
• — but no matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your con- 
sideration a few songs which may have 
escaped your hurried notice. In the mean- 
time, allow me to congratulate you now, as a 
brother of the quill. You have committed 
your character and fame, which will now be 
tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious 
jury of the Sons and Daughters of 
Taste — all whom poesy can please, or 
music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some pre- 
tensions to second sight ; and I am war- 
ranted by the spirit to fortell and affirm, 
that your great-grand-child will hold up 
your volumes, and say, with honest pride, 
" This so much admired selection Wfts the 
work <rf my ancestor I " 



KO. CCLXXVII. 



MR THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August 1st, 1793. 

Dear Sir^I had the pleasure of receiving 
your last two letters, and am happy to find 
you are quite pleased with the appearance of 
the first book, \^'hen you come to bear the 
gongs sung and accompanied, you will be 
charmed with them. 

"The bonnie bracket lassie" certainly de- 
serves better verses, and I hope you will 
match her. "Cauld kail in Aberdeen," "IjCt 
me in this ane night," and several of the live- 
lier airs, wait the muse's leisure; these are 
peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts; besides, 
you'll notice, that in airs of this sort the 
singer can always do greater justice to the 
poet, than in the slower airs of " The bush 
tbooB Traquair," " Lord Gregory," and the 



like; for, in the mariner the latier wets 

frequently sung, you must be contented 
with the sound, without the sense. Indeed, 
both the airs and words are disguised by the 
very slow, languid, psalm-singing style in 
which they are too often performed ; they 
lose animation and expression altogether, 
and, instead of speaking to the mind, or 
touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, 
and set us a-yawning ! 

Your ballad, " There was a Lass, and sho 
was fair," is simple and beautiful, and sUal], 
undoubtedly grace my collection. 



NO. CCLXXVIII, 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

My Dear Thomson — I hold the pen 
for our friend Clarke, who at present is 
studying the music of the spheres at my 
elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is 
rather out of tune ; so, until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial 
aflfairs. 

He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall 
have them. R. B. 

Confound your long stairs ! 

S. Clarkb. 



NO. CCLXXIX. 



BURNS TO MR. THOIMSON. 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the pas- 
sages in my song of " Logan Water," ia 
right ir one instance ; but it is difficult to 
mend it : if I can, I will. The other passage 
you object to does not appear in the same 
light to me. 

I have tried my hand on " Robin Adair," 
and, you will probably think, with littl* 
success ; but it is such si cursed, cramp, out- 
of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing 
anything better to it. 

\_Here follows "Phllis the Fair"] 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There 
I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the soag 
I meant for " Cauld kail in Aberdeen." tf 




c{:^:i['^ 



\9f^ 




'^v:':-:^,}^.^' 



BURNS TO MB, THOMSON. 



as 



a emits you to Insert /t, I shall be pleased, as 
the heroine is a favourite of mine ; if not, I 
shall also be pleased ; because I wish, and 
will be glad to see you act decidedly in the 
business. 'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, 
aud as an editor, which you owe yourself. 



NO. CCLXXX 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

August, 1793. 

My Good Sir — I consider it one of the 
most agreeable circumstances attending this 
publication of mine, that it has procured me 
so many of your much-valued epistles. Pray 
make my acknowledgements to St. Stephen 
for the tunes ; tell him I admit the justness 
of his complaint on my staircase, conveyed 
in his laconic postscript to your jeu d'esprit, 
which I perused more than once, without 
discovering exactly whether your discussion 
was music, astronomy, or politics ! though a 
sagacious friend, acquainted with the con- 
vivial habits of the poet and the musician, 
offered me a bet of two to one you were just 
drowning care together ; that an empty 
bowl was the only thing that would deejily 
affect you, and the only matter you could 
then study how to remedy ! 

1 shall be glad to see you g^ve "Robin 
Adair" a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing 
him with an English suit for a change, and 
you are well matched together. Robin's air 
is excellent, though he certainly has an out- 
of-the-way measure as ever poor Parnassian 
wight was plagued with. 1 wish you would 
invoke tlw muse for a single elegant stanza 
to be substituted for the concluding objec- 
tionable verses of "Down the Buru Davie," 
so that this most exquisite song may no 
longer be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your " John Anderson, my jo," which 
I am to have engraved as a frontispiece to 
the humorous class of songs ; you will be 
quite charmed with it, I promise you. The 
old couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs. 
Anderson, in great good humour, is clapping 
John's shoulders, while he smiles aud looks 
•t her with such glee, as to show that he 
fully reccliccts tli* pleasant d&ys aud iii^nta 
when they were " first acquent.'' The 
drawing woidd do honour to IE* g«ncil cf 
Teuiera. 



NO. CCLXXXI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune, " RoVm 
Adair," has run so in my head, and I suc- 
ceeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have 
ventured, in this morning's walk, one essay 
more. You, my dear Sir, will remember an 
unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cun- 
ningham's story, which happened about 
tliree years ago. That struck my fancy, and 
I endeavoured to do the idea justice aa 
follows : — 

[Here follows "Had I a Cave."'] 
By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander in Breadalbaue's Fencibles, which 
are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother singing Gaelic 
songs to both " Robin Adair" and " Grama- 
chree." They certainly have more of the 
Scotch than Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity ol 
Inverness: so it could not be any intercourse 
with Ireland that coidd bring them ; except, 
what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the 
wandering minstrels, harpers and pipers, 
used to go frequently errant through the 
wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so 
some favourite airs might be common to both. 
A case in point — they have lately, in Ireland, 
published an Irish air, as they say, called 
"Caun du delis." The fact is, in a publication 
of Corri's, a great while ago, you will find 
the same air, called a Highland one, with ■ 
Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I 
think, is " Oran Gaoil," aud a fine air it is. 
Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelir 
parson, about these matters. 



NO. CCLXXXII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

My Dear Sir — " Let me in this ane 
night," I will reconsider. I am glad thai you 
are pleased with my song, " Had I a Cave," 
&c., as I liked it myself. 

T walked out yesterday evening with • 
volume of the Museum in my hand, w\\«^, 
turning up "Allan Water," "What numbers 
shall the muse repeat," &c., as the words 
appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine 
«i! air, and recollecting that it is on your 
list I sat and raved under the shade of an 



i06 



COERESPONDENCR OF BURNS. 



olii tliorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. 
t may be wrong-; but I think it is not in my 
*orst style. You must know, that in Ram- 
jay's lea-table, where the modern song first 
•ppeared, the ancient name of the tune, 
Allan says, is " Allan Water," or " JNIy love 
Annie's very bonnie." This last has cer- 
tainly been a line of the original song; so I 
took up the idea, and, as you will see, have 
introduced the line in its place, which I 
presume it formerly occupied; though I like- 
wise give you a choosing line, ii' it should 
Dot hit the cut of your fancy : 

[Here follows "By Allan stream I chanc'd 
to rove."^ 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
you think so too (not else), you can set the 
music to it. and let the other follow as 
English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than all the year else. 
God bless youl 



■O. CCLXXXIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

Is "'V^liistle and I'll come to you, my 
lad," one of your airs ? I admire it much ; 
and yesterday I set the following verses to 
it. Urbaiii, whom I have met with here, 
begged them of me, as he admires the air 
much ; but as I understand that he looks 
with rather an evil eye on your work, I did 
not choose to comply. However, if the song 
does not suit your taste, I may possibly send 
it him. The set of the air which I liad in 
my eye is in Johnson's JMuseum. 

\_IIere follows " Oh whistle, and I'll come 
to you."] 

Another favourite air of mine is, "The 
muckin' o' Geordie's byre." When sung 
slow, witli expression, I have wished that it 
fcad had better poetry ; that I have endea- 
voured to supply as follows :— 

[Here he ffives the song " Ailoum winding 
Nith."} 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis 
a corner in your book, as she is a particular 
flame of his. She is a !Miss Pliillis M'^lurdo, 
•ister to "Bonnie Jean." They are both 
jjupils of his. You shall hear from me, the 
very first g' ist I get from my rhyming-miU. 



NO. CCLXXXIV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
August, 1793. 

That tune, "Cauld kail,"is such a fato 
rite of yours, that I once more roved out 
yesterday for gloamin-shot at the muses (168) ; 
when the muse that presides o'er the shore* 
of Nitli, or rather my old inspiring dearest 
nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. 
I haie two reasons for thinking that it was 
my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by 
my elbow, " smooth gliding without step," 
and pouring the song on my glowing fancy;— 
In the first place, since I left Coila's native 
haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen 
to cheer her solitary musings, by catching 
inspiration from her, so I more than suspect 
that she has followed ine hither, or, at least, 
makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you, is in the 
very words that Coila taught me many years 
ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel iu 
Johnson's Museum. 

[Ilere follows " Come, let me take tAee."] 

If you think the above will suit your idea 
of your favourite air, I shall be highly 
pleased. "The last time I came o'er the 
moor " I cannot meddle with, as to mending 
it ; and the musical world have been so long 
accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a 
different song, though positively superior, 
would not be so well received. I am not 
fond of cliornses to songs, so I have not 
made one for the foregoing. 



HO. CCLXXXV. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (169) 
August, 1793. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you 
know, is to the low part of the tuue. See 
Clarke's set of it iu the Museum. 

N.B. In the Museum they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 

is nonsense. Four lines of soug, 

and four of chorus, is the way. 



TO 



NO. CCLXXXVI 

MISS CRAIK. (170) 

Dumfries, August, 1793. 

^Iadam — Some rather unlooked-for acci- 
dents have prevented my doiajj myself lte« 



'W^' 



TO LADY GIJINCAIRN. 



407 



honour <f a second visit to Arbigland, as I 
»'as so hospitablv invited, and so positively 
laeant to liave done. However, I still hope 
to have that pleasure before the busy 
moiitlis of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as 
some kind of return for the pleasure I have 
received in perusing a certain MS. volume of 
poems in the possession of Captain itiddel. 
To repay oue with an old sowj, is a proverb, 
whose force, you, Jladam, I know, will not 
allow. A\ hat is said of illustrious descent 
is, I believe, equally true of a talent for 
poetry — none ever despised it who had pre- 
tdisions to it. The fates and characters of 
the rhyming tribe often employ my. thoughts 
when I am disposed to be melaucholy. There 
is not, among all the martyrologies that 
ever were penned, so rueful a narrative aa 
the lives of the poets. In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what 
they are doomed to suffer, but how they 
are formed to bear. Take a being of our 
kind, give him a stronger imagination and 
a more delicate sensibility, which between 
them will ever engender a more uugovern- 
tble set of passions than are the usual lot 
of man ; implant in him an irresistible im- 
pulse to some idle vagary, such as arranging 
wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing 
the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirp- 
ing song, watching the frisks of the little 
mnniow s in the sunny pool, or hunting after 
the intrigues of butterflies — in short, send 
him adrift after some pursuit which shall 
eternally mislead him from the paths of 
lucre, and yet curse him with a keener 
relish than any man living for the pleasures 
that lucre can purchase ; lastly, till up the 
measure of his woes by bestowing on him a 
spurnnig sense of his own dignity — and you 
have created a wight nearly as miserable as 
a poet. To you. Madam, 1 need not recount 
the fairy pleasures the muse bestows, to 
counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- 
witclung poetry is like bewitching woman : 
she has, in all ages, been accused of mislead- 
ing mankind from the councils of wisdom 
and the paths of prudence, involving them 
in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, 
bran ling them with infamy, and plunging 
them in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, 
w here is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — 
that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect 
of paradisiacal bliss isi but the glitter of a 
northern sun rising over a frozen region, 
compared with the many pleasures, the 
nameless raptures, that we owe to the lovely 
qiiieeu of the heart of man ! R. B. 

36 



NO. CCLKXXVII. 



TO LADY GLENCAIRN (171). 
My Lady — The honour you have dt«fl 
your poor poet, in writing him so very 
obliging a letter, and the pleasure the en- 
closed beautiful verses have given him, came 
very seasonably to his aid, amid the cheerless 
gloom and sinking despondency of diseased 
nerves and December weather. As to for- 
getting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is 
my witness with what sincerity I could use 
those old verses, which please me more in 
their rude simplicity than the most elegant 
lines 1 ever saw. 

•' If thee, Jerusalem, I forget. 

Skill part from my right hand. 
My tongue to my mouth's roof let clearer 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and tliee above 

My chief joy do not set." 

When I am tempted to do anything im- 
proper, I dare not, because I look on myself 
as accountable to your ladyslr»;i and family. 
Now and then, when I have the honour to 
be called to the tables of the great, if I 
happen to meet with any mortification from 
the stately stupidity of self-sufficient sqiures, 
or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, 
1 get above the creatures by calling to re- 
membrance that I am patronised by the noble 
house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, such 
as New-year's day, a christening, or the kirn- 
night, when my punch-bowl is brought froui 
its dusty corner, and filled up in .honour of 
the occasion, I begin with — The Counlcss of 
Glencairn ! My good woman, with the en- 
thusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries, il/^ 
Lord ! and so the toast goes on until I end 
with Ludy Harriet's little angel! (172) 
whose epithalamium I have pledged myself 
to write. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I 
was just in the act of transcribing for you 
some verses I have lately composed ; and 
meant to have sent them my first leisure 
hour, and acquainted you with my late 
change of life. I mentioned to my lord my 
fears concerning my farm. 1'hose fears were 
indeed too true ; it is a bargain would have 
ruined me, but for the lucky circumstance 
of my having an Excise commission. 

People may talk as they please of the ig- 
nominy of the Excise ; £5U a year will sup. 
port m.y wife and children, and keep me 
independent of the world ; and I would 
much rather have it said that my profession 
borrowed credit from me, than that I bor- 
rowed credit from my profession. A'lotW 



408 



COfiRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



iidvanta<?e I have in this business, is the 
kiinwledge it gives me of the various sharks 
of huraau charactcar, consequently a'isisting 
me vastly in ray poetic pursuits. I had the 
most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when 
nobody knew me but mysetfj and that ardour 
is by no means cooled, now that my Lord 
Glencairu's goodness has introduced me to 
all the world. Not that I am in haste for 
the press. I have no idea of piiblishiuE;, else 
I certainly had consulted my noble generous 
patrou ; but after acting tiie part of an 
honest man, and supporting my family, my 
whole wishes and views are directed to 
poetic pursuits. I am aware that, though I 
were to give performances to the world supe- 
rior to my former works ; still, if they wer« 
of the same kind with those, the compara- 
tive reception they would meet witli, would 
nortify me. I have turned my thoughts on 
the drama. I do not mean the stately 
buskin of the tragic muse. 

Does not your ladyship think that an 
Edinburgh theatre would be more amused 
with affectation, folly, and whim of true 
Scottish growth, than manners, which by far 
the greatest part of the audieuce can only 
know at second hand? I have tlie honour 
to be, your ladyship's ever devoted and grate- 
ful humble servaJit, R. B. 



NO. CCLXXXTIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinhurgh, Sept. \st, 1793. 

My Dear Sir — Since writing you last, I 
have received half a dozen songs, with which 
I am delighted beyond expression. The 
humour and fancy of " Whistle, and I'll 
come to you, my lad," will render it nearly 
c^ great a favourite as " Duncan Gray." 
"Corae, let me take thee to my breast," 
"Adown \vinding Nith," and "By Allan 
stream," &c., are full of imagination and 
feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which 
they are intended. " Had I a cave on some 
wild distant shore," is a striking and atTect- 
ing composition. Our friend, to whose story 
it refers, reads it with a swelhng heart, I 
assure you. The union we are now forming, 
I think; can never be broken ; these songs 
of yours will descend, with the music, to the 
latest posterity, and will be fondly cherished 
BO long as genius, taate, and seusibihiy, 
bist in our island. 



Whilst the muse seems so propitious, I 
think it right to enclose a list of all the 
favours I have to ask of her — no fewer than 
twenty and three ! I have burdened tiie 
p'easant Peter with as many as it is probable 
he will attend to ; most of the remaining 
airs would puzzle the English poet not a 
little — they are of that pecidiar measure and 
rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 



NO. CCLXXXIX. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Sept., 1793. 

You may readily tnist, my dear Sir, that 
any exertion in my power is heartily at your 
service. But one thing I nmst hint to you ; 
the very name of Peter Pindar is of great 
service to your publication, so get a verse 
from him now and then ; though I have no 
objection, as well as I can, to bear the burdea 
of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored '^v art. For this 
reason, many musical com)/ositions, particu- 
larly where much of the merit lies in conn- 
terpoint, however they may transport and 
ravish the ears of you connoisseurs, affect 
my simple lug no otherwise than merely as 
melodious din. On the other hand, by way 
of amends, 1 am delighted with many little 
melodies, which the learned musician despises 
as silly and insipid. I do not know whether 
the old air, " Hey tuttie taitie," may rank 
among this number ; but well I know that, 
with Frazer's hautboy, it has often filled ray 
eyes witli tears. There is a tradition, which 
I have met with in many places in Scotland, 
that it was Robert Bruce's march at the 
battle of Bannockburn. This thought, ia 
my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a 
pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty 
and independence, which I threw into a kind 
of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one 
might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's 
address to his heroic followers oi that 
eventful morning. 

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKf 

BURN. 

Tune — Heij tuttie taitie. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace Ked, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften le«l. 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
D" to victory ! 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 



409 



Now's the day, and now's the hour: 
See the front o' battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slavery. 

Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
IVha can fill a coward's grave P 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee I 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him foUow me I 

By oppression's woes and paini. 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 

But they shall be free I 

Ijay the proud usurpers low 1 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 

Let us do or die ! 

So may God ever defend the cause of 
truth and liberty, aa he did that day ! 
Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to 
make soft verses for it ; but I had no idea 
of giving myself any trouble on the subject, 
till the accidental recollection of that glorious 
struggle for freedom, associated witii the 
flowing ideas of some other struggles of the 
same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my 
rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, 
with his bass, you will find in the Museum, 
though I am afraid that the air is not what 
will entitle it to a place in your elegant 
■election. 



■KO. CCXC. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will 
l)egin to think my correspondence is perse- 
cution. No matter, 1 can't help it; a ballad 
is my hobby-horse, which, though otherwise 
a snuple sort of harmless idiotical beast 
enough, has yet this blessed headstrong 
property, that when once it has fairly made 
off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured 
with the tiiigle-gingle, tingle-gingle of its 
own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgar- 
lick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any 
useful point or post in the common race of 
men. 



The following song I bave composed for 
" Oran-gaoil," the Highland air, that, you 
tell me in yeur last, you have resolved to 
give a place to in your book. I have this 
moment finished the song, so you have it 
glowing from the mint. If it suit you, wellJ 
— K not, 'tis also well ! 

[Here followa " Behold the Uour."^ 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 5th, 1/93. 

I BELIEVE it is generally allowed that 
the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of 
the greatest merit. While you are sending 
me verses that even Shakspeare might be 
proud to own, you speak of them as if they 
were ordinary productions ! Your heroic 
ode is to me the noblest composition of the 
kind in the Scottish language. I happened 
to dine yesterday with a party of your 
friends, to whom I read it. They were all 
charmed with it ; entreated me to find out a 
suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of 
giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest 
or grandeur as "Hey tuttie taitie." Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from 
the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it, for I never heard any 
person, — and I have conversed again and 
again with the greatest enthusiasts for Scottish 
airs — I say, I never heard any one speak of 
it as worthy of notice. 

1 have been running over the whole hun- 
dred airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; 
and I think " Lewie Gordon" is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least, with a very 
slight variation of the fourth line, which J 
shall presently submit to you. There is in 
" Lewie Gordon" more of the grand than the 
plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a 
degree of spirit, which your words would 
oblige the singer to give it. I would havo 
no scruple about substituting your ode in 
the room of "Lewie Gordon,'' which has 
neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the 
poetry, that characterise your verses. Now, 
the variation I have to suggest upon the last 
line of each verse, the only line too short foi 
the air is as follows ; — 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victory 

2nd, Chains — chains and slavery. 
3rd, Let him. let him turn and <9ea. 



110 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



4th, Let him bravely fi)llow me. 

orii. But they shall, they shall be free. 

6th, Let us, l:t us do or die ! 

If you coiniect each line with its owti 
Terse, I do not think you will find that 
either the sentiment or the expression loses 
any of its energy. The only line which I 
dislike in the whole song is, " Welcome to 
your gory bed." Would not another word 
be preferable to " welcome ? " In your next 
I will expect to be informed whether you 
agree to what I have proposed. The little 
alieratious i submit with the greatest defer- 
ence. 

The beauty oi the verses you have made 
for " Oran-gaoil" will ensure celebrity to the 
air. 



NO. CCXCII. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, 
•nd here go my observations on it. (173) 

"Down the Burn Davie." I have this 
moment tried au alteration, leaving out the 
last half of the third stanza, and the first 
half of the last stanza, thus : — 
As down the burn they took tlieir way. 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ? " 
Quoth Mary, " Love I like the burn. 

And aye shall follow you." (174) 

" Thro' the wood laddie" — I am decidedly 
of opinion, that, both in this, and "There'll 
never be peace till Jamie comes hame," the 
second or high part of the tune being a 
repetition of the first part an octave higher, 
is only for instrumental music, and would be 
much better omitted in singing. 

" Cowden-knowes." Remember in your 
index that the song in pure English to this 
tune, beginning. 

When lummer coaies, the 8waius on Tweed, 

b the production of Crawford. Robert was 
his Christian name. 

"Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for 
some time. I do not know the air; and 
until I am complet(! master of a tune, in my 
own singing (such as it is), I can never com- 
pose for it. ily way is : I consider the 
Qoetic sentiment correspondent to my idea 



of the musical expression ; then choose mj 
theme ; begin one stanza : when that la 
composed, which is gei'.er.Jly the most ditH- 
cult part of the busiijess, I walk out, sit 
down now and taen, look out for objects in 
nature around me thfit are iu miison anJ 
harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, 
and workings of my bosom; humming every 
now and tlien the air with the verses I hava 
framed. When I feel my muse beginning to 
jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my 
study, and there commit my effusions to 
paper ; swinging at in tervals on the hind- 
legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling 
forth my own critical strictures as my pen 
goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost 
invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

" Gill Jlorice" I am for leaving out. It is 
a plaguy length ; the air itself is never 
sung ; and its place can well be supplied by 
one or two songs for fine airs that are not 
in your list — for instance, "Craigieburn 
wood" and "Roy's wife." The first, beside 
its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; and the last 
lias high merit, as well as great celebrity. I 
have the original words of a song for tha 
last air, in the handwriting of the lady who 
composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song which the public has yet 
seen. 

"Highland-laddie." The old set will 
please a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new 
an Italianised one. Tliere is a third, and 
what Oswald calls the old " Highland- 
laddie," which pleases me more than either 
of them. It is sometimes called "Gingliu 
Johnnie ;" it being the air of an old humo- 
rous tawdry song of that name. You will 
find it ill the jMuseian, " I hae been at 
Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, in 
this musical quandary, to offer up your 
prayers to the muses for inspiring direction ; 
and, iu the meantime, waiting for this direc- 
tion, bestow a hbatio.i to Bacchus ; and 
there is not a doubt but you will hit on a 
judicious choice. Prohatum est. 

"Auld Sir Simon" I must beg you to 
leave out, and put in its place " The 
Quaker's wife." 

"BIythe hae I been o'er the hill," is one 
of the finest songs ever I made in my life, 
and, besides, is composed on a young lady, 
positively the most beautiful, lovely woman 
in the world. As I purpose giving you the 
names and designations of all my heroines, 
to appear in some future edition of your 
work, perhaps half a century hence, you 
must certainly include "The bonniest lass » 
a' the warld," in your collection. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



4U 



"Dainty Davi;"' I have heard sung nnie- 
tocii thous:ind nn a hundred and uiuetj'-nine 
times, and always with the chorus to the 
/o\v part of the tune ; and nothing has 
surprised rae so much as your opinion on 
this subject. If it will not suit as I pro- 
posed, we will lay two of the stanzas 
together, and then make the chorus follow. 

"Fee hiin, father:" I enclose you Frazer's 
set of this tune when he plays it slow : iu 
fact, he makes it the language of despair. 
I shall here give you two stanzas, in that 
style, merely to try if it will be any im- 
provement. (175) Were it possible, in sing- 
ing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer 
gives it in playing, it would make an ad- 
mirably pathetic song. I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. I 'Composed 
them at the time in which " Fa' e Allan's 
mitlier died — that was, about the back o' 
midnight;" and by the lee-side of a bowl 
of punch, which had overset every mortal in 
company except the hautbois and the muse. 

[Here follows " Thou hast left me ever."] 

* Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and 
in its place would put "There's nae luck 
about the house," which has a very pleasant 
air, and which is positively the finest love- 
ballad in that style in the Scottish, or 
perhaps in any other language. "When 
she came ben she bobbit," as an air, is more 
beautiful than either, and in the andante 
way would unite with a charming senti- 
mental ballad. 

"Saw ye my father?" is one of my 
greatest favourites. The evening before 
last, I wandered out, and began a tender 
song, ill what I think is its native style. I 
must premise, that the old way, and the way 
to give most effect, is to have no starting- 
note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at 
once into the pathos. Every couutrj girl 
sings "Saw ye my father?" &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion 
of it. I ha^e sprinkled it with the Scottish 
dieJect, but it may be easily turned mto 
correct English. (17G) 

" Todliu liame." Urbani mentioned an 
dea of his, which has long been mine, that 
his air is highly susceptible of pathos : 
accordingly, you will soon hear him at your 
concert try it to a song of mine in the 
]\luseiim, "Ye banks and braes o' boiinie 
Doon." One song more, and I have done; 
"Auld lang syne." The air is but mediocre ; 
hut the following song, the old song of the 
olden times, and which has never been iu 
pruit, nor even iu manuscript nntil I t-^ok it 

36 



down fi-om an old man's sing ng 
to recommend any air. 



is enough 



[Here the poet gives "Auld lang sj/ne."] 

Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. " Gill 
Morice," "Tranent Muir," " Macpherson'a 
farewell," "Battle of Sheritf-mnir," or, " AVe 
ran, and they ran" (I know the author of 
this charming ballad, and his history), 
" Hardiknute," " Barbara Allan" (I can 
furnish a finer set of this tune than any 
that has yet appeared) ; and besides, do yoa 
know that 1 really have the old tune to 
which " The cherry and the slae" was sung, 
and which is mentioned as a well-known ail 
in "Scotland's Complaint," a book published 
before poor Mary's days? It was then 
called, "The banks o' Helicon;" an old 
poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. 
You will see all this in Tytler's History ol 
Scottish ]\Iusic. The tune, to a ^earned ear, 
may have no great merit ; but it is a great 
curiosity. I have a good many original 
things of this kind. 



KO. CCXCIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THO^ISON. 

September, 1793. 

I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode 
pleases you so much. Your idea, " honour's 
bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed 
idea ; so, if you please, we will let the lias 
stand as it is. I have altered the sons as 
follows :— 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMl 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce lias aften led. 
Welcome to your gory bed I 
Or to glorious victory 1 

Now's the day, and now's the hour. 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power) 
Edward ! chains and slavery. 

Wlia will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave P 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn, and fle»f 








lIllilllillliaiillllllllllllllllllllHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllllllllllllllllllllH^ 



«IS 



rORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



TVTia for Scotland's king ind law- 
Freedom's sword will stt'ongly draw, 
Frftcman stand, or freeman fa', 
Sodger ! hero ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be— shall be freel 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Lilierty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do or die! 

N.B. I have borrowed the last stajiza 
from the common stall edition of Wallace — 

A false usurper sinks in every foe. 
And liberty returns with every blow. 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, and my head aches miserably. 
One comfort ! I suffer so much, just now, in 
iSjis world, for last night's joviality, that I 
shall escape scot-free for it in the world to 
come. Ameu. 



NO. CCXCIV. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

September Utk, 1793. 

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear 
Sir, for your observations on the list of my 
songs. I am happy to find your ideas so 
much in unison with my own, respecting the 
generality of the airs, as well as the verses. 
About some of them we differ, but there is 
no disputing about hobby-horses. I shall 
not fail to profit by the remarks you make, 
and to re-consider the whole with attention. 

" Dainty Davie" must ue sung, two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus : 'tis the 
proper way. I agree with you, that there 
may be sometViing of pathos, or tenderness 
at least, in the air of "Fee hira, father," 
when performed with feeling ; but a tender 
cast may be given almost to any lively air, if 
you sing it very slowly, expressively, and 
witL serious words. I am, however, clearly 
and invariably for retaining the cheerful 
tunes joined to their own humorous verses, 
wherever the verses are passable. But the 
sweet song for "Fee him, father," which 
/ou began about the back of midnight, I 
will publish as an additional one. Mr. 
James Balfour, the king of good fellows, 



and the best singer of tllie lively Soottisi 
ballads that ever existed, has charmed thou- 
sands of companies with " Fee him, father," 
and with "Todlin harae" also, to the old 
words, which never should be disunited from 
either of these airs. Some bacchanals I 
would wish to discard. " Fy ! let's a' to the 
bridal," for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, 
that I think it fit only to be sung iu a coiLi- 
paiiy of drunken colliers ; and " Saw ye my 
father?" appears to me both indelicate and 
silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the 
poet, that a prudent general wovld avoid 
saying any thing to his soldiers which might 
tend to make death more frightful than it is. 
" Gory" presents a disagreeable image to the 
mind; and to tell them " Welcome to your 
gory bed," seems rather a discouraging 
address, notwithstanding the hlteniative 
which follows. I have shown the song to 
three friends of excellent taste, and each of 
them objected to this line, which emboldens 
me to use the freedom of bringing it agaia 
under your notice. I would suggest. 

Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victory ! 



NO. CCXCV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOxMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disa 
gree?" My ode pleases me so much that 3 
cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations 
would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am 
exceedingly obliged to you for putting me 
on reconsidering it, as, I think, I have much 
improved it. Instead of " sodger ! hero I " 
I will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me 1 " 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and 
to the world, some way or other, it shall go 
as it is. At the same time, it will not in the 
least hurt me should you leave it out alto- 
gether, and adhere to your first intention of 
adopting Logan's verses. (177) 

I have finished my song to " Saw ye my 
father? "and in Enghsh, as you wUl see. 
That there is a syllable too much for the ex- 
pression of the air, is true ; but, allow me to 
say, that the mere dividing of a dotted 
crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not 
a great matter : however, in that I hare ng 
pretensions to cope in judgi leut with you 01 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 



413 



Ihs poetry I s^»eaK with confidence ; but the 
miiiic is a business where I hint my ideas 
with the utmost dittidence. 

The old verses have merit, though un- 
equal, and are popular : my advice is to set 
the air to the old words, and lei mhie follow 
as English verses. Here they are : — 

[Here follows the song "Where a»e thejoi/s."'] 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so I 
shall defer some other remarks until more 
eisure. 



WO. CCXCTI, 



BURNS TO THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some volumes 
of songs, to find verses whose measures 
would suit the airs for which you have 
allotted me to find English songs. 

For " Muirland Willie," you have, in 
Ramsay's Tea-table an excellent song, be- 
ginnitig, "Ah, why those tears in Nelly's 
eyes?" As for "Tlie Collier's dochter," 
take the following old bacchanal : — 

[Here follows " Deluded swain, the 
pleasure."'] 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
thus : — 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
1 he widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?" 

Tlie song otherwise will pass. As to 
"M'Ciregoria Rua-Ruth." you will see a 
song of mine to it, with a set of the air 
superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. 
p. 181. The song begins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
downright Irish. If they were like the 
" Banks of Banna," for instance, though 
really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you 
might adopt them. Since you are so fond of 
Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of 
them in an adtlitional number ? We could 
easily find this quantity of charming airs : I 
will take care that you shall not want songs; 
and I assure you that you would find it the 
most saleable of the whole. If you do not 
approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's 
sake, ve shall not insert it. " Deil tak the 
wars " IS a charming song ; so is, " Saw ye 
my Peggy ? " " There's nae luck about the 
house " well deser/es a place. I cannot say 
that " O'er the hills and far awa " strikes me 
fi8 equal as your selectiou. " This ia no my 



cin house" is a great favourite air of mine ; 
and if you will seiul me your set of it, I will 
task my muse to her highest effort. What 
is your opinion of " I hae laid a herrin' in 
saut ?" I like it much. Your Jacobite airs 
are pretty, and there are many others of the 
same kind pretty ; but you have not room 
for them. You cannot, I think, insert " Fy ! 
let's a' to the bridal," to any other words 
than its own. 

AVhat pleases me, as simple and naif, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this 
reason, " Fy ! gie me my coggie, Sirs," " Fy ! 
let's a' to the bridal," with several others of 
that cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, 
" Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother ? " 
delights me with its descriptive simple 
pathos. Thus my song, " Ken ye what Meg 
o' the mill has gotten?" pleases myself so 
much, that I cannot try my hand at another 
song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I 
know you will laugh at all this; but "ilk» 
man weaffs his belt lus ain gait." 



NO. CCXCVII. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, wa« 
indeed ladeu with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine ! (178) The recollection that he 
was a coadjutor in your publication, has, till 
now, scared me from writing to you, or 
turning my thoughts on composing for you. 
I am pleased that you are reconciled to 
the air of the " Quaker's wife ; " though, by 
the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a 
deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, 
and known by the name of " Leiger m' 
choss." The following verses, I hope, will 
please you, as an English song to the air. 

[Here follows " Thine am I, my faithfiii 
fair."] 

Your objection to ttie English song I pro- 
posed for " John Anderson, my jo," is cer- 
tainly just. The following is by an old 
acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. 
The song was never in print, which I tlunk 
is so much in your favour. The more origi- 
nal good poetry your collection contains, it 
certainly has so much the more merit. 

SONG.— By Gavin Turnbull. (179' 
" Oh condescend, dear charming maid, 

My wretched state to view ; 
A tender swain to love betray'iJ, 
And sad despair, by yo» 







IIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIillllllllllllll!illlHllill!llllliliiii>>illlllHlllllllllllH!llliillllllllillinil!ll!llllinilllilllllllll!llllllll^^ 




in 



COREESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



VVhile here, all melancholy. 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet, iirg'd by stern resistless fat^ 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd tliem when they sigh'd. 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelentinjf hate, 

I love thee more avid more. 

Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield t 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field. 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee. 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, 1 shall bless thee still. 

And love thee more and more." 

The following address of Turnbull's to the 
Nightingale, will suit as an English song to 
the air, " There was a lass, and she was fair." 
By the bye, TurnbuU has a great many songs 
in MS., which I can command, if you like 
bis manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend 
of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour : 
but I like some of his pieces very much. 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

"Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plaintive strain. 

Awake thy tender tale of love. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid. 
And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons. 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

Wlieu evening shades obscure the sky. 
And bruig the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain." 

I shall just transcribe another of Turn- 
kull's, whi( ii would go charmingly to " Lewie 
8ordon." 

LAURA. 

"Let me wander where I will, 
Ifiy shady wood, or winding rill; 



Where the sweetest May-bom flovten 
Paint the meadows, deck the borers; 
Where the linnet's early sous^ 
Echoes sweet the woods araonj; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy stilL 

If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muN; 
If I court some cool retreat. 
To avoid the noontide heat ; 
If beneath tlie moon's pale ray. 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray { 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise; 
While with boundless joy I rOTC 
Thro' the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still." 

The rest of your letter I shall aMwnr oa 
some other opportunity. 



NO. ccxcvm. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

November 7th, 1793. 

My Good Sir — After so long a silence, 
it gave me peculiar pleasure to recognise 
your well known-hand, for I had begun to 
be apprehensive that all was not well with 
you. I am happy to find, however, that 
your silence did not proceed from that 
cause, and that you have got among the 
ballads once more. 

1 have to thank you for your English 
song to "Leiger m' clioss," which I think 
extremely good, although the colouring la 
warm. Your friend, Mr. TurnbuU's songs 
have doubtless considerable merit ; and as 
you have the command of his manuscripts 
I hope you may find out some that will 
answer as English songs, to the airs yet 
unprovided. (180) 



NO. ccxcix. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esa 

Dumfries, December, 1793. 

Sir — It is said that we take the greatest 
liberties with our greatest friends, utd I 



TO ilES. EroDEL. 



415 



(¥17 myself a very high compliment in the 
aiaiinor in which I am going to applj' the 
remark. I have owed you money longer 
than ever I owed it to any man. Here is 
Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; 
and now, I don't owe a shilling to man — or 

nduiii!! eitlier. But for these d dirty, 

ddg-ear'd little pages (181), I had done my- 
self the honour to have waited on you long 
ago. Independent of the obligations your 
hospitality has laid me under, the cou- 
ciousjiess of your superiority in the rank of 
man and gentleman, of itself was fully as 
mucli as I could ever maLe head against ; 
but to owe you money too, was more than I 
could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a 
collection of Scots songs I have for some 
years been making — I send you a perusal of 
wliat I have got together. I could not 
cmveniently spare them above five or six 
d lys, and iive or six glances of them will 
} robahly more than suffice you. A. very 
few of them are my own. V.'hen you are 
tired of them, please leave them with Mr. 
Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not 
another copy of the collection in the world ; 
and I should be sorry that any unfortunate 
negligence should deprive rrn of what has 
cost me a good deal of pams. H. B. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, Es^, 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Dumfries, 1793. 

Will Mr. M'JIurdo do me the favour to 
accept of these volumes (182) ; a trilling but 
sincere mark of the very higli respect 1 bear 
for his worth as a man, his manners as a 
gentleman, and his kindness as a friend, 
riowever inferior now, or afterwards, I may 
rank as a poet, one honest virtue to which 
few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever 
claim as mine — to no man, whatever bis 
station in life, or his power to serve me, 
have I ever paid a compliment at the 
expense of TRUTH. The Author. 



j pertinent in my anxi»ms wi*h to be aono ired 
with your acquaintance. You w ill foigi^e it 

I — it was the impulse of heart-felt respe;t. 

I " He is tlie father of the Scottish county 

I reform, and is a man who does honour to 
the bnsiness, at the same time that the 

I business does honour to him," said my 
worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by 
me who was talking of your com:ng to this 
country with your corps. "Tlien," I said, 
" I liave a woman's longing to talie him by 
the hand, and say to him, 'Sir, I honorr you 
as a man to whom the interests of humanity 
are dear, and as a patriot to whom the 
riglits of your country are sacred.' " 

In times like these. Sir, when our com- 
moners are barely able, by the glimmering 
of their own twilight understandings, to 
scrawl a frank, and when lords are what 
gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to 
whom shall a sinking country call for 
help ? To the independent country gentle- 
man. To him who has too deep a stake in 
his country not to be in earnest for her 
welfare ; and who, in the honest pride of 
man, can view, with equal contempt, tlie 
insolence of office, and the allurements of 
corruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or 
song I had lately composed (184), and 
which, I think, has some merit. Allow Uti 
to enclose it. \A'hen I fall in with you at 
the theatre, I shall be glad to have your 
opinion of it. Accept of it. Sir, as a very 
humble, but most sincere tribute of respect 
for a man who, dear as he prizes poetic 
fame, yet holds dearer an independent 
mind, I have the honour to be, 

KB. 



NO. CCCI. 

TO CAPTAIN 



-. a83) 



Dumfries, Becemher 5t7i, 1793. 

Sir — Heated as I was with wine yester- 
■ight, I was perliaps rather seemingly im- 



1*0. CCCII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO WAS ABOUT TO BESPEAK A PLAT OK* 
EVENING AT THE DU.MFRIES THEATRE. 

I AM thinking to send my "Address" to 
some periodical publication, but it has not 
got your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg ol 
you, my dear ^ladam, to give us " The 
Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret ! " to 
which please add, " The Spoilt Child " — yon 
will highly obhge iiieby so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are! 
There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-de'Tl 
day, you are gomg to a party oS r.boi^ 
spirits — 



iHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiniiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiniiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiii 




I^'<i|t> 




Aid 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and iiicessaat form 
Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. 
Where lively loit excites to gay surprise: 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself. 
Calls laughter fortli, deep shaking every 
nerve. 

But, as you rejoice with thera that do 
rejoice, do also remember to weep with them 
that weep, and pity your melancholy friend, 
a. B. (185) 



NO. CCCIII. 

TO A LADY, 



TW PAVOOB OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT. 

Dumfrires, 1794. 

Madam — You were so very good as to 
promise me to honour my friend with your 
presence on his benefit uight. That night 
is fixed for Friday next : the play a most 
interesting one — " The Way to Keep Him." 
I have the pleasure to know JMr. G. well. 
His merit as an actor is generally acknow- 
ledged. He has genius and worth which 
would do honour to patronage : he is a 
poor and modest man : — claims which, from 
their very silence have the more forcible 
power on the generous heart. Alas, for 
pity I that, firom the indolence of those who 
hav"5 the good things of this life in their 
gift, too often does brazen-fronted im- 
portunity snatch that boon, tlie rightful due 
of retiring, humble want ! Of all the 
qualities we assign to the author and 
director of Nature, by far the most enviable 
is, to be able " to wipe away all tears from 
all eyes." Oh what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance may 
have loaded them with wealth, who go to 
their graves, to their magnificent mauso- 
leums, with hardly the consciousness of 
having made one poor honest heart happy. 

But I crave your pardon. Madam ; I 
lame to beg not to preach. £. B. 



MO. CCCIT. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dumfries, January I2th, 1794. 

My Lord — Will your lordship allow me 
to pieseut you with the enclosed httle com- 



position of mine (186), as a small tribute ol 
gratitude for the acquaintance with which 
you have been pleased to honour me. Inde- 
pendent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I 
have rarely met with any thing in history 
which interests my feelings as a man, eqnsil 
with the story of Bannockburn. On the one 
hand, a cruel but able usurper, leading on 
the finest army in Eurojie to extingnish the 
last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring 
and greatly-injured people ; on the other 
hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, 
devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding 
country, or perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize tnily, and indeed 
invaluable, for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought ! 

It my little ode has the honour of your 
lordship's approbation, it will gratify my 
highest ambition. I have the honour to be, 
&c B. B. 



WC. CCCT. 

TO CAPTAIN MILLEIL 

DALSWINTON. 

Dear Sir — The following ode (187) is oa 
a subject which I know you by no meana 
regard with indifference. Oh, Liberty, 

Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasiure to 
the day. 

It does me so much good to meet with a 
man whose honest bosom glows with the 
generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of 
liberty, that 1 could not forbear sending you 
a composition of my own on the subject, 
which I really think is in my best manner. 
I have the honour to be, dear Sir, &c. 

B. B. 



HO. CCCVI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL 

Dbab Madam — I meant to have called 
on you yesternight ; but as I edged up to 
your box-door, the first object which greeted 
my view was one of those lobster-coated 
puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding 
the Hesperian fruit. On the cunditioiis and 
cai)itulations you so obligingly oftcr, I shall 
certainly make my wi '.ather-bea'eia, rasti'* 






TO MRS. RIDDEL. 



4W 



pbiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, 
when we may arrange the business of the 
visit. 

Arnong the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, 
incessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, 
how far exalted above such adoration — per- 
mit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
you the honest tribute of a warm heart and 
au independent mind, — and to assure you, 
that I am, thou most amiable, and most 
accomplislied of thy sex, with the most 
respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, 
Sx. R. B. 



WO. cccvu. 
TO THE SAME. 



I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued 
friend, but whether in the morning I am not 
sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst 
revenue business, and may probably keep 
me employed with my pen until noon. Fine 
employment for a poet's pen ! There is a 
species of the human genus that I call the 
oin-horse clasn: what enviable dogs they are! 
Round, and round, and round they go. 
iMundell's ox, that drives his cotton mill, is 
their exact prototype — without an idea or 
wish beyond their circle — fat, sleek, stupid, 
patient, quiet and contented ; while here I 

sit, altogether Novemberish, a d melange 

of fretfulness and melancholy ; uot enough 
#f the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the 
Other to repose me in torpor ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, 
like a wild tinch, caught amid the horrors of 
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, 
I am persuaded, that it was of me the Hebrew 
«age prophesied, when he foretold — "And, 
behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his 
heart, it shall not prosper !" If my resent- 
ment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare 
rot squeak ; and if — * * » 

Pray that wisdom aud bliss bs more fire- 
(uetit visitors of R. ^. 



HO. ^ccvin. 

TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE this moment got the song from 
Byrne, and I am sorry to see that he l^as 



spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to 

me how I lend him anything again, 

I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to 
have any, the smallest, opportunity of obli- 
ging you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I 
was at Woodlee; and that once froze the 
very life-blood of my heart. Your reception 
of me was such, that a wretch meeting tha 
eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence 
of death on him, could only have envied my 
feeUngs and situation. But I hate the 
theme, and never more shall write or speak 
on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can 
pay Mrs, R. a higher tribute of esteem, and 
appreciate her amiable worth more truly, 
than any man whom I have seen approach 
her. R. B. 



MO. CCCHL 

TO THE SAIMB 



I HAVK often told you, my dear friend:, 
that you had a spice of caprice in your com- 
position, and you have as often disavowed it ; 
even, perhaps, while your opinions were, at 
the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could 
anything estrange me from a fi-iend such aa 
you ? No ! To-morrow I shall have the 
honour of waiting on you. 

Farev.ell, thou tirst of friends, and most 
accomplished of women, even with all thy 
little caprices I R. B. 



HO. CCOL 

TO THE SAME 

Madam — I return your common-plsnt 
book. 1 have perused it wth much jileasure, 
and would have continued my criticisms, but 
as it seems the critic has forfeited your 
esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 

If it is true that "offences come only frojn 
the heart ;" before you I am guiltless. To 
admire, esteem and prize you, as the most 
accomplished of women, and the first of 
friends — if these are crimes, I am the. most 
offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
complacency of friendly confidence, now (f 



(13 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUENS. 



find (old Tiej^lect, an_ contemptuous scorn — 
is a wTencii that my heart can ill bear. 
It is, however, some kind of miserable good 
luck, that while de haut-en-has rigour may 
depress an iniort'ending wretch to the ground, 
it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn some- 
thing in his bosom, which, though it cannot 
heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an 
opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

^V'ith the profoundest respect for your 
abilities; the most sincere esteem, and ardent 
regard for your gentle heart and amiable 
manners; and the most fervent wish and 
prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss — I 
have the honour to be, Jladam, your most 
devoted humble servant, K. B 



TO JOHN SYME, Esa. (188) 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song., which I com- 
posed since I saw you, and I am going to 
give you the history of it. (189) Do you 
know, that among mucli that I admire in the 
characters and manners of those great folks 
whom I have now the honour to call my 
acquaintances, the Oswald family, — there is 
nothing charms me more than Mr. Oswald's 
unconcealable attachment to that incompa- 
rable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, 
meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O.? 
A fine fortune; a pleasing exterior; self- 
evident amiable dispositions,and an ingenuous, 
upright mind, — and that informed, too, much 
beyond the usual run of young fellows of his 
rank and fortune : and to all this, such a 
woman ! — but of her I shall say nothing at 
all, in despair of saying anything adequate : 
in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice 
to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in 
the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his 
Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with 
my performance, I, in my first fervour, 
Thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald, but, 
on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as 
the honest incense of genuine respect, might, 
trom the well-knowii character of poverty 
and poetry, be construed into some modifi- 
cati<in or other of that servility which my 
8cul abhora, S. B. 



NO. CCCXH. 

TO MISS ^ 

Dumfries, 1794 

Madam — ^Nothmg short of a kind o( 
absolute ueces.sity could have made me trouble 
you with this letter. Except my ardent and 
just esteem for your sense, taste and worth, 
every sentiment arising in my breast, as I 
put pen to paper to you, is painful. The 
scenes I have passed with the friend of ray 
soul, and his amiable connexions ! the wrench 
at my heart to think that he is gone, for 
ever gone from me, never more to meet 
in the wanderings of a weary world ! and 
the cutting reflection of all, that I had most 
unfortunately, though most undeservedly, 
lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere 
it took its flight I 

These Madam, are sensations of no ordi- 
nary anguish However, you also may be 
oft'ended with some imputed improprieties of 
mhie ; sensibiUty you know I possess, and 
sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have 
been raised against me, is not the business 
of this letter. Indeed, it is a warfare I know 
not how to wage. The powers of positive 
vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my 
guard : but who can estimate the fatuity of 
giddy Ciiprice, or ward off the unthinking 
mischie' of precipitate folly ? 

1 ha\e a favour to request of you. Madam ; 

and of your sister, Mrs. , through your 

means. You know that, at the wish of my 
late friend, I made a collection of all my 
trifles in verse which I had ever written. 
They are many of them local, some of them 
put-rile and silly, and all of them unfit for 
the public eje. As I have some little fame 
at stake — a fame that 1 trust may live wheu 
the hate of those who "watch for my halting," 
and the contumelious sneer of those whom 
accident has made my superiors, wdll, with 
themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion 
— I am uneasy now for the fate of those 
manuscripts. Will ilrs. have the good- 
ness to destroy them, or return them to me? 
As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed; 
and that circumstance, indeed, was all their 
merit. Most unhappUy for me, that merit 
they no longer possess ; and I hope that 

Mrs. 's goodness, v hich I well know, 

and ever will revere, will not refuse tliia 
favour to a man whom she once he? 1 in some 
degree of estimation. 

A\'ith the sincerest esteem, I have tha 
honour to be. Madam, &c. B. R. 



MR. THOMSOX TO BURNS. 



419 



no. CCCXIII. 
TC> MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

February 25tk, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul 
tost oil a sea of troubles, without one friendly 
jtar to guide her course, and dreading that 
the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst 
tlwu give to a frame, tremblingly alive to the 
tortures of suspense, the stability and hardi- 
hood of the rock that braves the blast ! If 
thou cau3t not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou di-iturb me in my miseries, 
with thy inquiries after me ? 

For these two months I have not been 
able to lift a pen. My constitution .and 
frame were ab or'ujine, blasted with a deep, 
incurable taint of hypochondria, which 
poisons my existence. Of late a number of 
domestic vexatious, and some pecuniary 
share in the ruin of these cursed times — 
losses which, though trifling, were yet what 
I could ill bear — have so irritated me, that 
my feelings at times could only be envied by 
a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
that dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consola- 
tion ? I have exhausted in reflection every 
topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
have been charmed with my sentiments and 
reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like 
Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel : he 
might melt and mould the hearts of those 
arovmd him, but his own kept its native 
mcorrigibilty. 

StUl, there are two great pillars that bear 
us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and 
misery. The one is composed of the different 
modifications of a certain noble, stubborn 
iomething in man, known by the names 
ef courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The 
OTHER is made up of those feelings and sen- 
timents, which, however the sceptic may 
deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, 
are yet, I am convinced, original and compo- 
nent parts of the human soul ; those senses 
of the mind — if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion — which connect us with, and link us to, 
those awfid obscure realities — an ill-power- 
ful, and equally beneficent God, and a world 
to come, beyond death and the grave. The 
first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray 
of hope beams on the field : the last pours 
the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of 
*«ligkq^ at all. I luiow some who laugh at 



it, as the trick of the crafty few to lead the 
undiscerning many; or, at most, as au 
uncertain obscurity, which mankind can 
never know anything of, and with which 
they are fools if they give themselves much 
to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for 
his irreligion, any more than I would for 
his want of a musical ear. I would regret 
that he was shut out from what, to me and 
to others, were such superlative sources of 
enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue tho 
mind of every child of mine with religion. 
If my son should happen to be a man of 
feeling, sentiment and taste, I shall thus add 
largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
myself, that this sweet little fellow, who ia 
just now running about my desk, will be a 
man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart,— 
and au imagination delighted with the 
painter, and rapt with the poet. Ijet me 
figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, 
to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself 
the while in the blooming youth of life. He 
looks abroad on all nature, and through 
nature up to nature's God. His soid, by 
swift, delighting degTces, is rapt above this 
sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no 
longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
enthusiasm of Thomson : — 

" These, as they change. Almighty Father 

these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee ;" — 

and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of 
that charming hymn. These are no idea' 
pleasures, they are real delights ; and I ask 
what of the delights among the sons of men 
are superior, not to say equal, to them? 
And, they have this precious, vast addition, 
that conscious virtue stamps them for her 
own, and lays hold on them to bring herself 
into the presence of • witnessing, judging, 
and approving God. R. B. 



WO. CCCXIT. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April I7tk, 1794. 

My dear Sir — Owing to the distress 
of our friend for the loss of his child, at the 
time of his receiving your admirable but 
melaucholy letter, I had not an 



37 





' ll|llllllllllll!lllll!lllllllllli:iKlllillllOllllllllllli,i~.ilUllllllllllllllllllll!lllllillllllllllllllllll!lllllllllllllllllllllil^ 



i2D 



COKRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



till lately, of perusing it. How sorry I 
am to find Burns saying', " Canst thou not 
minister to a mind diseased ? " while he is 
dehshting others from one end of the island 
to the other. Like the hypochondriac who 
went to consult a pliysician upon his case — 
"Go," says the doctor, "and see the famous 
Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good 
humour." "Alas ! Sir," replied the patient, 
" I am that unhappy Carlini ! " 

Your plan for our meeting together 
pleases me greatly, and I trust that by some 
means or other it will soon take place ; but 
your bacchanalian challenge almost frightens 
me, for I am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good 
opinion of his talents. He has just began a 
•ketch from your " Cotter's Saturday Night," 
and, if it pleases himself in the design, 
he will probably etch or engrave it. In 
subjects of the pastoral and humorous 
kind, he is, perhaps, unri\ ailed by any artist 
bving. He fails a little in giving beauty 
and grace to his females, and his colouring 
is sombre, otherwise his paintings and 
drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of tlie " Sutor's dochter," 
and will consider whether it shall be added 
to the last volume ; your verses to it are 
pretty ; but your humorous English song, 
to suit "Jo Janet," is inimitable. What 
think you of the air, " Within a mile of 
Edinburgh?" It has always struck me as 
a modern English imitation, but it is said to 
be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I 
believe I must include it. The verses are 
Lttle better than namby-pamby. Do you 
consider it worth a stanza or two? 



KO. CCCXV. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 

Mt Dear Sir — ^I return you the plates, 
with which I am highly pleased; I would 
humbly propose, instead of the younker 
knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn 
into his hands. A friend of mine, who is 
positively the ablest judge on the subject I 
have ever met with, and though an unknown, 
is yet a superior artist with the burin, is 
quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got 
him a peep of the " Gentle Shepherd ; " and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist 
of great excelleuc» 



For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choos- 
ing my favourite poem for his subject, to bi 
one of the highest compliments I have evei 
received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cocped 
up in France, as it will put an entire stop to 
our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by 
and bye. I got an air, pretty enough, com- 
posed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, 
which she calls " The banks of Cree." Cree 
is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have 
irtTitten the following song to it. 

IHere follows the tong entitled " The Banks 
qf Cree." 



NO. CCCXVI. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

May, 1794. 

My Lord — ^When you cast your eye on 
the name at the bottom of this letter, and 
on the title-page of the book I do myself 
the honour to send your lordship, a more 
pleasurable feeling than my vanity, tells me 
that it must be a name not entirely unkiuiwn 
to you. The generous patronage of your late 
illustrious brother found me in the lowest 
obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to 
the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to 
express in a poem to his memory, which I 
have now published. This edition is just 
from the press ; and in my gratitude to the 
dead, and my respect for the living (fame 
belies you, my lord, if you possess not the 
same dignity of man, which was your noble 
brother's characteristic feature), I had des- 
tined a copy for the Earl of Glencairn. J 
learnt just now that you are in town : allow 
me to present it to you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal 
contagion which pervades the world of let- 
ters, that professions of respect from an 
author, particularly from a poet to a lord, 
are more than suspicious. I claim, by my 
past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, 
an exception to the too just conclusion. 
Exalted as are the honours of your lordsliip's 
name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of 
mine; with the uprightness of an honest 
man, I come before your lordship, irith an 
offering — however huiable, 'tis all I have to 




Mi> 




•It) MR. JAMES JOHNSOir. 



421 



pivCj »)f my grateful respect; and to beg of 
you, luy lord, 'tis ul! 1 have to ask of you, 
that you will do me the honour to accept of 
it. 1 have the honour to be, B. B. 



NO. CCCXVII. 



TO DAVID MACCULLOCH, Esa. (190) 

Dumfries, June 21st, 1794. 

My Dear Sir — My long projected jour- 
ney through your country is at last tixed ; 
and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing 
of more importance to do, take a saunter 
do^Ti to Gatehouse about two or three 
o'clock ; I shall be happy to take a draught 
of M'Kune's best with you. Collector 
Syme will be at Glens about that time, and 
will meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme 
goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind 
you of your kind promise to accompany me 
there; 1 will need all the friends I can muster, 
for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach 
your honourables and right-honourables. 
Yours sincerely, B. B. 



NO. cccxvin. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Castle Douglas, June 2oth, 1794. 

Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
urn I set by myself, to amuse my brooding 
fancy as I may. Sohtary coufinerQeiit, you 
kuow, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaim- 
ing sinners ; so let me consider by what 
fatality it happens that I have so long been 
exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspond- 
ence of the most valued friend I have on 
earth. To tell you that I have been in poor 
health will not be excuse enough, though it 
is true. I am afraid that I am about to 
sufler for the follies of my youth. My 
medical friends threaten me with a flying 
gout ; but I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical 
patience with the first sketch of a stanza I 
have been framing as I passed along the road. 
The subject is liberty : you know, my hon- 
oured friend, how dear the theme is to me. 
I design it as an irregular ode for General 
Washington's birth-day. After having men- 
uoued the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I 
come to ScotLuid thus: 



Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths amon?. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred 
song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immiugled with the mighty dead. 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death. 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep. 

Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. 

With the addition of 

That arm which nerved with thundering 
fate. 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking 
star. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, 
powerless age. 

You will probably have another scraw] 
from me in a stage or two. R. B. 



NO. cccxix. 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

Dumfries, 1794. 

My Dear Friend — You should have 
heard from me long ago ; but over and above 
some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses 
of these accursed times, I have all this win- 
ter been plagued with low spirits and blue 
devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on 
the willow trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new 
edition of my poems, and tliis with my ordi 
nary business, finds me in full employment. 

I send you by my frieud, Mr. Wallace, 
forty-one songs for your fifth volume ; if we 
caunot finish it any other way, what would 
you think of Scots words to some beautiful 
Irish airs ? In the meantime, at your leisure, 
give a copy of the "Museum " to my worthy 
friend, Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for 
me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as 
he did the Laird of Gleuriddel's, that I may 
insert every anecdote I can learn, together 
with my own criticisms and remarks on the 
songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave 
with you, the editor, to publish at some after 
period, by way of making the " Museum " a 
book famous to the end of time, and you 
renowned for ever. 

I have got a Highland dirk, for which I 
have great veneration, as it once was the 
dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad 



(22 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



bands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, 
»s well as tlw knife and fork. 1 have some 
thoiit;hts of sending it to your care, to get 
It mounted anew. 

Thank y m for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. Our friend Clarke h:>s done indeed 
well ! — 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not 
met with anything that has pleased me so 
much. You know I am no connoisseur ; but 
that I am an amateur will be allowed me. 
K. B. 



MO. CCCXX. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Oris 
your work to be at a dead stop, until tlie 
allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty 
from the savage thraldom of democrat dis- 
cords ? Alas, the day ! And woe is me ! 
That auspicious period, pregnant with the 
happiness of millions. » * * » 

I have presented a copy of your songs to 
the daughter of a much-valued and much- 
honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry. I wrote on the blank side of the 
title-page the following address to the young 
lady: 

" Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives, [join'd. 

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
Accept the gift ; tho' Inimble he who gives. 

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 
So may no ruffian-feehng (191) in thy 
breast, 

Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 
But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 

Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 
Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals : 

While conscious virtue all the strain 

endears, [seals." 

And heaveu-bora piety her wuctiou 



NO. cccxxi. 
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Jdn., 

CVMIRIES. 

Sunday Morning. 

Dear Sir — I was, I know, drunk last 
night, but I am sober this morning. From 
the expressions Capt. ^— made use of to 



me, had T had nobody's welfare td care fat 
but my own, we should certainly have come, 
according to the manners of the world, to 
the necessity of murdermg one another 
about the business. The words were such 
as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of pis- 
tols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife 
and family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther, you know that the report of certaia 
political opinions being mine, has already 
once before brought me to the brink of de- 
struction. I dread lest last night's business 
may be misrepresented in the same way. 
You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I 
tax your wish for Mr. Burns's welfare with 
the task of waiting, as soon as possible, on 
every gentleman who was present, and state 
this to him, and, as you please, show him 
this letter. What, after all, was the ob- 
noxious toast ? " May our success in the 
present war be equal to the justice of our 
cause" — a toast that the most outrageous 
frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. 1 re- 
quest and beg, that this morning you wdl 
wait on the parties present at the foolish 
dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly 
sorry that a man who stood so high in my 

estimation as Mr. , should use me in 

the manner in wliich I conceive he has done. 
R. B. 



no. CCCXXI t. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Aiujust \Qlh, 1794. 
Mv Dear Sib— I owe you an apology 
for having so long delayed to acknowledge 
the favour of your last. I fear it will be, as 
you say, I shall have no more songs from 
Pleyel till France and we are friends ; but, 
nevertheless, I am very desirous to be pre- 
pared with the poetry ; and as the season 
approaches in which your muse of Coila 
visits you, 1 trust I shall, as formerly, be 
frequently gratified with the result of youi 
amorous and tender interviews 1 



»o. cccxxm. 

BUKNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August 30/ A, 1704. 
The last evening, as I was strayiiig ou^ 
and thinkuig if "O'er the lulls aiui &r 



BURNS TO MR, THOMSON. 



423 



away,*" I spun the followinsf stanza for it ; 
but whether ray spinning will deserve to be 
laid up iu store, like the precious tliread of 
the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like 
the vile manufacture of the spider, I leave 
tny dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. 
I was pleased with several lines in it at first, 
but I own that now it appears rather a 
flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see 
whether it be worth a critique. We have 
many sailor songs, but as far as I at present 
recollect, they are mostly the effusions of 
the jovial sailor, not the wailings of his love- 
lorn mistress. 1 must here make one sweet 
exception — " Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach 
came." Now for the song : — 

[" On the seas and far away."'] 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but 
do it iu the spirit of Christiau meekness. 



NO. CCCXXIT. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. I6th, 1794. 

My Dear Sir — You have anticipated 
my opinion of " On the seas and far away ; " 
I do not think it one of your very happy 
productions, though it certainly contains 
stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, par- 
ticularly " Bullets, spare my only joy." 
Confound the bullets ! It might, perhaps, 
be objected to the third verse, " At the 
starless midnight hour," that it has too 
much grandeur of imagery, and that greater 
simplicity of thought would have better 
suited the character of a sailor's sweetheart. 
The tune, it must be remembered, is of the 
brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole, there- 
fore, in my humble opinion, the song would 
be better adapted to the tune, if it con- 
sisted only of the first and last verses, with 
the choruses. 



WO. cccxxv, 
BT7BNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 

I SHALXr withdraw my " On the seas and 
hr away " altogether : it is unequal, and 
unworthy the work. Making a poem is like 
Wgetting a son ; you cannot know whether 



you have a wise man or a feol, until yon 
produce him to the world to try hiin. 

For that reasoi I send you the offspring 
of my brain, abortions and a^l ; and, as 
such pray look over them and forgive them, 
and burn them. (192) I am flaltered at your 
adopting " Ca' the yowes to the knowes," 
as it was owing to me that ever it saw thfl 
light. About seven years ago I was well 
acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a 
clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charm- 
ingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took 
it down from his singing. When 1 gave it 
to Johnson, 1 added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will 
not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I 
took to-day, I tried my hand on a few 
pastoral lines, following up the idea of the 
chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, 
with all its crudities and imperfections on 
its head. 

[Here follows " Ca' the yowes."'} 
I shall give you my opinion of your 
other newly adopted songs my first scrib- 
bling fit. 



NO. CCCXXVI. 



31* 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

Sept. 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song 
called " Onagh's Waterfall ? " The air is 
charming, and I have often regretted the 
want of decent verses to it. It is too much, 
at least for my humble rustic muse, to 
expect that every effort of hers shall have 
merit ; still, I think it is better to have 
mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none 
at all. On this principle I have all along 
proceeded on the Scots Musical Museum; 
and as that puljlicatiou is at its last volume, 
I intend the following song, to the iur 
above mentioned, for that v/ork. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, yon 
may be pleased to have verses to it that you 
can sing in the company of ladies. 

[Here follows "She says she loves me beet 
of a'."] 

Not to compare small things with grea'i, 
my taste in music is like the mighty 
Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting ; we 
are told that he frequently admired wliat 
the connoisseurs decried, and always with 
out any hypocrisy confessed his admiration, 
I am sensible that tay taste iu m'isic must 



424 



COKRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



be inclei^ant and vulgar, because people of 
anclisputed and cultivated tasto can find no 
merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because 
I am cheaply pleaded, is that any reason 
why I should deny myself that pleasure? 
Many of our strathspeys, ancient and 
modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, 
where you and other judges would probaTjly 
be showing disgust. For instance, I am 
just now making verses for " Kothemurche's 
rant," an air which puts me in raptures: 
and, in fact, unless I be pleased with tl» 
tune^ I never can make verses to it. Here I 
have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that 
I will pit against any of you. " Eothe- 
murclie," he says, "is an air both original 
and beairtifnl ; " and, on his recomnieiida- 
tion, I have taken the first part of the tune 
for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for 
the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the 
work, and possibly you may think, and 
justly, that the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as the music. 

[7/ere folloio two stanzas of the song, 
hegtmiiiig " Lassie wi' the Ihit-wldte locks."~\ 

I have begun anew, " Let me in this ane 
flight." Do you think that we ought to 
retain the old chorus ? I think we must 
teiaia both the old chorus and the first 
itaiiza of the old song. I do not altogether 
'ike the third line of the first stanza, but 
cannot alter it to please myself. I am just 
three stanzas deep in it. AA^ould you have 
the denouiiment to be successful or other- 
•vise ? — should she " let him in " or not ? 

Did you not once propose "The sow's 
♦ail to Geordie " as an air for your work ? 
( am quite delighted with it ; but I acknow- 
ledge that is no mark of its real excellence. 
I once set about verses for it, which I meant 
to be in tlie alternate way of a lover and his 
mistress chanting together. I have not the 
pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's 
Christian name ; and yours, I am afraid, is 
rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had 
meant to have made you the hero and 
heroine of the httle piece. 

How do you like the following epigram 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely 
young girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor 
Maxwell was the physician who seemingly 
eaved her from the grave; and to him I 
»ddress the following : — 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S REC07ERY. 

Maxwe'l, if merit here you crave, 
Tlrat \iierit I deny : 



You save fair Jessie from the grave ? 
An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle I 



HO. CCCXXVlt 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now 
attendant upon her favourite poet, whose 
tvoodnotes wild are become as enchanting as 
ever. " She says she loes me best of a'," is 
one of the pleasantest table songs I have 
seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the 
song is going round. I'll give CunningViara 
a copy ; he can more powerfully proclaim 
its merit. I am far from undervaluing 
your taste for the strathspey music ; on the 
contrary, I think it highly animating and 
agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, 
when graced with such verses as yours, will 
make very pleasing songs, in the same way 
that rough Christians are tempered and 
softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the "Sow's tail," 
particularly as your proposed verses to it are 
so extreuiely promising. Geordie, as you 
observe, is a name only fit for burlesque 
composition. ]\Irs. Thomson's name (Katlia- 
rine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, 
therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any 
other that sounds agreeably. 

Your " Ca' the ewes " is a precious little 
morccau. Indeed, I am perfectly astonished 
and charmed with the endless variety of 
your fancy. Here let me ask you, whether 
you never seriously turned your thoughts 
upon dramatic writing? That is a field 
worthy of your genius, in which it might 
shine forth in all its splendour. One or 
two successful pieces upon the London stage 
would make your fortune. The rage at 
present is for musical dramas : few or none 
of those which have appeared since the 
"Duenna," possess much poetical merit; 
there is little in the conduct of the fable, or 
in the dialogue, to interest the audience: 
they are chiefly vehicles for music and 
pageantry. I think you might produce a 
comic opera in three acts, which would live 
by the poetry, at the same time that it 
would be proper to take every assistance 
from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, 
of course, would be to our favourite Scottish 
airs ; the rest might be left to the LondoK 
composer— St orace for Drury-lane, or Shield 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



420 



for Coveiit-garden, both of them very able 
and popular musiciaus. I believe that 
interest and manojuvriug are often necessary 
to liave a drama brought on ; so it may be 
with the namby-pamby tribe of flowery 
Bcril)blers : but were you to address Mr. 
Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a 
dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, 
fur the honoiu: of genius, give it a fair and 
candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding 
tkese hints •-'nou your consideration. (193) 
&. B. 



KO. CCCXXVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
Edinhurgh, October lA^th, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to 
the re-examination of the Scottish collections. 
I nave read, and sung, and fiddled, and 
cunsidered, till I am half blind, and wholly 
stupid. The few airs I have added, are 
enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all 
the songs I expected from him, which are, 
in general, elegant and beautiful. Have 
you heard of a London collection of Scottish 
airs and songs, just published by Mr. 
Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall send you 
a copy. His introductory essay on the 
subject is curious, and evinces great reading 
and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that jMr. Tytler, in 
his ingenious dissertation, has adduced no 
sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to 
establish, and that his classi/ication of the 
airs according to the eras when they were 
composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. 
On John Pinkerton, Esq., he has no mercy, 
but consigns him to damnation. He snarls 
at my publication, on the score of Pindar 
being engaged to write songs for it ; un- 
candidly and unjustly leaving it to be 
inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers 
had been sent a-packing to make room for 
Peter's ! Of you he speaks with some 
r<;spect, but gives you a passing liit or two, 
for daring to dress up a little some old 
foolish songs for the Museum. His sets of 
the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
ths oldest collections and best authorities ; 
Eiany of them, however, have such a strange 
aspect, and are so unlike the sets whicli are 
sung by every person of taste, old or young, 
in town or country, that we can scarcely 
recognise the featmres of our favourites. By 



going to the oldest collections of oui music; 
it does not follow that we find the melodies 
in their original state. These melodies had 
been preserved, we know not how long, bj 
oral communication, before being collected 
and printed ; and, as different persons sing 
the same air very difiereutly, according tc 
tlteir accurate or confused recollection of it, 
so, even supposing the first collectors to 
possess the industry, taste, and discernment, 
to choose the best they could hear (which is 
far from certain), stUl it must evidently be 
a chance, whether the collections exhibit 
any of the melodies in the state they were 
first composed. In selecting the melodies 
for ray own collection, I have been as much 
guided by the living as by the dead 
Where these differed, I preferred the seta 
that appeared to me the most simple and 
beautiful, and the most generally approved : 
and without meaning any coinpliraeut to my 
own capability of choosing, or speaking o/ 
the pains I have taken, I flatter myself thai 
my sets will be found equally free fronr 
vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected 
graces on the other. 



NO. cccxxix. 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October I9th, 1794. 
My Dear Friend — By this morriiug'i 
post I have your list, and, in general, I 
highly approve of it. I shall, at more lei- 
sure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, 
and I wish you would call on hiin and take 
his opinion in general : you know his taste 
is a sta:idard. He will return here again in 
a week or two, so please do not miss asking 
for him. One thing I hope he will do — 
persuade you to adopt my favourite, "Craigie- 
burn wood," in your selection : it is as great 
a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on 
whom it was made is one of the finest women 
in Scotland ; and in fact (entre nous) is in a 
manner to me, what Sterne's Eliza was to 
him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, 
in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. 
(Now, don't put any of your squinting con- 
structions on this, or have any clishmaclaver 
about it among our acquaintances.) 1 assure 
you that to U]y lovely friend you are indebted 
for many of your best songs of mine. Do 
you think tiiat the sober, gin-horse routine 
of existence could inspire a man with Mtm 



426 



CORRESPONDE^rCE OF BUilNS. 



and love, and. joy — could fire him with enthu- 
siasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the 
genius of your book ? No ! no 1 Whenever 
I want to be more than ordinary in song — to 
be in some degree equal to your diviner airs 
^do you imagine I fast and pray for the 
celestial emanation ? Tout au conlraire ! I 
have a glorious recipe; the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the divniity of 
healing and poetry, when erst he piped to 
the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a 
regimen of admuing a fine woman ; and in 
proportion to the adorability of her charms, 
in proportion you are delighted with ray 
verses. The lightning of her eye is the god- 
head of Parnassus, and the witchery of her 
smile the divmity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if you like ray 
idea of " When she cam ben she bobbit," the 
following stanzas of mine, altered a little 
from what they were formerly, when set to 
another air, may perhaps do instead of worse 
stanzas : — 

[Here follows " Saw ye my Philly."] 

Now for s few miscellaneous remarks. 
"The Posie" (in the IMuseum) is my compo- 
sition ; the air was taken down from Jlrs. 
Barns's voice. (194) It is well known in 
the west country, but the old words are 
trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune 
again, and tell me if you do not think it is 
the original from which " Rosliu Castle " is 
composed. The second part, in particular, 
for the first two or three bars, is exactly the 
old air. " Strathallau's Lament " is mine ; 
the music is by our right trusty and 
deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. 
"Donocht-Head" (195) is not mine; 1 would 
give ten pounds it were. It appeared first 
in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the 
editor of that paper with the Newcastle post- 
mark on it. (196) " Whistle o'er the lave 
o't" is mine: the music said to be by a 
John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in 
Dumfries, about the beginning of this 
century. This I know, Bruce, who was an 
honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, 
constantly claimed it ; and by all the old 
musical people here, is believed to be the 
author of it. 

"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called 
the Flower of Strathmore. 

" How long and dreary is the night ! " I 
met with some such words in a C(jllection of 
Bougs somewhere, which I altered and 



enlarged; and to please you, and to suit 
your favourite air, I have taken a stride oi 
two across ray room and have arranged it 
anew, as you will find on the other page. 

[Here follows "How long mid dreary i& 
the Ni(/ht."] 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. 
There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in 
it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense 
with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of 
my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays 
and sings at the same time so charmingly, 
that 1 shall never bear to see any of her songs 
sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What- 
d'ye-call-um has done iu his London collec- 
tion. (197) 

Tliese English songs gravel me to death. 
I have not that command of the language 
that I have of my native tongue. I have 
been at " Duncan Gray," to dress it in 
English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. 
For instance ; — 

[Here follows "Let not Woman e'er 
complain."^ 

Since the above, I have been out in the 
country taking a dinner with a friend, where 
I met with the lady whom I mentioned 
in the second page in this odds-and-ends of 
a letter. As usual, I got into song ; and 
returning home I composed tne following:— 

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune — Deil tak the Wars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea. 
ture; 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 

\^^aters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods. 

And by the reeking floods. 
Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bkss tha 
day. 

Phoebus gilding the brow c' raornit.g. 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladd'ning and adorning; 

Such to me my lovely maid, 

When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' car© 








TO MR THOMSON. 



427 



l'"u]i ^tai'less gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

liTit when in beauty's light, 

Slie meets my ravished s'ght, 

Wliei-i through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
*na then I wake to life, to light, and 
joy! (198) 

If you honour my ver»ea by setting the 
air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and 
make it English enough to be understood. 

1 enclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indian air, which you would swear was a 
Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, 
as the gentleman who brought it over is a 
particular acquaintance of mine. Uo pre- 
serve me the copy I send you, as it is the 
only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, 
and I intend putting it into the Musical 
Museum. Here follow the verses I intend 
for it. 

[Here follows "But lately seen in glad- 
Bome green."^ 

I would be obliged to you if you would 
procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of 
English songs, which you mention in your 
letter. I will thank you for another infor- 
mation, and that as speedily as you please : 
whether this miserable, drawling, hotchpotch 
epistle has not completely tired you of my 
correspondence '? 



HO. cccxxx. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburr/h, October 21th, 1794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a 
genuine poet can no more exist without his 
mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the 
adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching 
smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish 
bard, that I might drink her sweet health 
when the toast is going round. " Craige- 
burn wood " must certainly be adopted into 
my family, since she is the object of the 
song; but, in the name of decency, I must 
beg a new chorus verse from you. " Oh to 
be lying beyond thee, dearie," is perhaps a 
consummation to be wished, but will not do 
for singing in the comjiany of ladies. The 
songs in your laat will do you lasting credit, 
and suit the respective airs charmingly 1 am 
perfectly of your opinion with respect to 
the additional airs. The idea of sending 



them into tb-.- world nukeil as they were 
bnrn, was ungenerous. Thfy must all be 
clothed and made decent by our friend 
Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly 
Cunningham in sending you llitson's Scot- 
tish collection. Permit me, therefore, to 
present you with his English collection, 
which you will receive by the coach. I do 
not find his historical essay on Scottish song 
interesting. Your anecdotes and miscella- 
neous remarks will, I am sure, be much more 
so. Allan has just sketched a charming de- 
sign from " Maggie Lauder." She is dancing 
with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
seems almost dancing too, wlule he is [jlayiu^ 
with the most exquisite glee. I am much 
inclined to get a small copy, and to have it 
engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. 

P.S. Pray what do your anecdotes say 
concerning " Maggie Lauder ?" — was she a 
real personage, and of what rank ? You 
would surely " spier for her, if you ca'd at 
Austruther town." 



HO. CCCXXXI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your present; it is a book of the utmost 
importance to me. I have yesterday begun 
my anecdotes, &c., for your work. 1 intend 
drawing them up in the form of a letter to 
you, which will save me from the tedious 
dull business of systematic arrangement. 
Indeed, as all I have to say consists of un- 
unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of 
Old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give 
the work a beginning, a middle, and an (?nd, 
which the critics insist to be abolutely neces- 
sary in a work. In my last, I iold "you my 
objections to the song you had selected for 
" Jly lodging is on the cold ground." On 
ray visit the other day to my fair Chlorig 
(tliat is the poetic name of the lovely god- 
dess of my inspiration), she suggested an 
idea, which I, on my return from the visit, 
wrought into the following song. 

"My Chloris, mark how green the groves." 

How do you like the simplicity and te* 
derness of this pastoral ? I tliiuk it pretJij 
well. 



428 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of " ma cliere amie." 
I assure you I was never more earnest in my 
life, than in the account of that affair « hich 
I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a 
passion which I deeply feel, and highly vene- 
rate ; but somehow it does not make such a 
figure in poesy as that other species of the 
passion. 

Where love is liberty, and nature law. 

Musically speaking, the first is an instru- 
ment of which the gamut is scanty and 
contiued, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, 
while the last has powers equal to all the 
tntHllectual modulations of the human soul. 
Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm 
of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
of the beloved object is the first and invio- 
late sentiment that pervades my so\d ; and 
whatever pleasures I might wish for, or 
whatever might be the raptures they would 
give me, yet, if they interfere with that first 
principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and 
generosity disdains, the purchase ! (199) 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, 1 have 
been turning over old collections, to pick 
out songs, of which the measure is some- 
tliing similar to what I want; and, with a 
little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of 
the air exactly, to give you them for your 
work. Where the songs have hitherto been 
but little noticed, nor have ever been set to 
music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, 
which, under the same first verse, you will 
find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I 
have cut down for an English dress to your 
" Dainty Davie,'' as follows : — 

" It was the charming month of May." 

You may think meanly of this, but take 
a look at the bombast original, and you will 
be surprised that I have made so much of 
it. I have finished my song to " Rothe- 
murche's rant," and you have Clarke to 
consult as to the set of the air for singing. 

[Here follows '-Lassie m' the lint-white 
locks : "] 

This piece has at least the merit of being 
a regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the 
aumiuer noon, the autumnal evening, and 
the winter night, are regularly rounded. If 
you like it, well ; if uot, I will insert it ia 
the Museum. 



IfO. CCCXXXII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

I AM out of temper that you should s^ 
80 sweet, so tender an air, as " Deil tak the 
wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk 
of the siUiness of " Saw ye my father ? " 
(200) — by Heavens ! the odds are gold to 
brass ! Besides, the old song, though now 
pretty well modernised into the Scottish 
language, is originally, and in tlie early 
editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scdttish manner, by that genius Tom 
D'Urfey, so has no pretensions to be a 
Scottish production. There is a pretty 
English song by Sheridan, in the " Duenna," 
to this air, which is out of sight superior to 
D'Urfey's. It begins, 

"When sable night each drooping plant 
restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of 
it properly, is the very native language of 
simplicity, tenderness, Bad love. 1 have 
again gone over my song to the tune as 
follows. (201) 

Now for my English song to " Nancy's 
to the greenwoods," &c. 

[7/ere follows the song "Farewell tlum 
stream."^ 

There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's 
delight," to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson, " Ye banks and braes 
o' bonnie Doon : " this air, I think, might 
find a place among your hundred, as Lear 
says of his knights. Do you know the 
history of the air ? It is curious enough. 
A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, 
writer in your good town, a gentleman whom 
possibly you know, was in company with our 
friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be 
able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
partly by way of joke, told him to keep to 
the black keys of the harpsicord, and pre- 
serve some kind of rhythm, and he would 
infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is 
that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the 
rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with 
some touches and corrections, fashioned into 
the tune in question. Ritson, you know, 
has the same story of the black keys ; but 
this account which I have just given you, 
Mr. Clarke informed me of several years 
ago. Now, to show you how diHicult it is 
to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard 
it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish 
au:; uay, I met with au Insh gentleman 




TO ME. THOMSON. 



429 



who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland 
amoug the old women ; while, on the other 
hand, a countess informed me, that the first 
person who introduced the air into this 
country, was a baronet's lady of her ac- 
quaintance, who took down the notes from 
an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How 
difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respect- 
ing our poesy and music ! I, myself, have 
lately seen a couple of ballads sung through 
the streets of Dumfries, with my name at 
the head of them as the author, though 
it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. 

1 thank you for admitting " Craigieburn 
woorl : " and I shall take care to furnish 
you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus 
was not my work, but a part of some old 
verses to the air. If I can catch myself in 
a more than ordinarily propitious moment, 
I shall write a new " Cragieburn wood " 
altogether. My heart is much in the 
theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make 
the request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; 
but in a moment when I had forgotten 
whether I was rich or poor, I promised 
Chlcris a copy of your songs. It wrings 
my honest pride to write you this ; but an 
ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious 
apology. To make you some amends, as 
soon as I have extracted the necessary infor- 
mation out of them, I will return you Rit- 
sou's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is 
to make so distinguished a figure in your 
collection, and I am not a little proud that I 
have it in my power to please her so much. 
Lucky it is for your patience that my paper 
is done, for when I am in a scribbluig 
humotur, I know not when to give over. 



NO. CCCXXXIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

November I5th, 1794. 

My Good Sir — Since receiving your last, 
1 have had aii other interview with Mr. Clarke, 
and a long consultation. He thinks the 
" Caledonian Hunt " is more bacchanalian 
than amorous in its nature, and recommends 
it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray, 
did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well 
the Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the 
foim of a dialogue? The first part of the 
fcir is generally low, and suited for 8 man's 



i voice ; and the second part, in many in- 
! stances, cannot be sung, at concert pitch, 
but by a female voice. A song thus per- 
fwrmed Bakes an agreeable variety, but few 
of ours are written in this form : I wish yon 
would think of it in some of those that 
remain. The only one of the kind you have 
sent me is admirable, and will be an uniTersal 
favourite. 

Your verses for " Rothemurche " are so 
sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to 
Chloris, for "Deil tak the Wars," so passion- 
ately tender, that I have sung myself into 
raptures with them. Your song for " My 
lodging is on the cold ground," is likewise a 
diamond of the first water : I am quite daz- 
zled and delighted by it. Some of your 
Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxen hair, from 
your partiality for this colour — else we differ 
about it ; for I should scarcely conceive a 
woman to be a beauty, on reading that she 
had Imt-white locks ! 

" Farewell thou stream that winding 
flows." I think, excellent, but it is much too 
serious to come after " Nancy ;" — at least, it 
would seem an incongruity to provide the 
same air with merry Scottish and melancholy 
English verses ! The more that the two sets 
of verses resemble each other, in their gen- 
eral character, the better. Those you liave 
manufactured for " Dainty Davie " will 
answer charmingly. I am happy to find you 
have begun your anecdotes : I care not how 
long they be, for it is impossible that any- 
thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you not to use ceremony in 
telling me when you wish to present any of 
your friends with the songs : the next carrier 
will bring you three copies, and you are aa 
welcome to twenty as to a pinch of snuH 



MO. cccxxxiv. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November I9th, 1794. 

Yon see, my dear Sir, what a punctual 
correspondent I am ; though, indeed, you 
may thank yourself for the lediuni of my 
letters, as you have so flattered me on my 
horseminship with my favourite hobby, and 
have praised the grace of his ambling so 
much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. 
For instance, this morning, though a keen 
blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I 
finished my duel, which you were pleased to 
praise so much. Whether I have uniforailj 



iiiiiiiiHiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiii 



#30 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



tucceeded, I will not say ; but here it is for 
you, though it is not an hour old, 

[Here followt the song "Philly and 
Willy."'\ 

Tell me honestly how you like it, and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of 
singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and 
regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. 
In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. 
I remember your objections to the name 
Philly, but it is the common abbreviation of 
Pliillis. Sally, the only other name that 
suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, 
which unfits it for anything except burlesque. 
The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, 
whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks 
with me as my coevals, have always mistaken 
vulgarity for simplicity ; whereas, simplicity 
is as much eloir/}iee from vulgarity on the one 
hand, as from affected point and puerile con- 
ceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, " Craigie- 
bnrn wood," that a chorus would, in some 
degree, spoil the effect, and shall certainly 
have none in my projected song to it. It is 
not, however, a case in point with " Rothe- 
nuirche ; " there, as in " Roy's wife of Aldi- 
valloch," a chorus goes, to my taste, well 
enough. As to the chorus going first, 
that is the case with Roy's wife, as well 
as " Rotheraurche." In fact, in the first 
part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar 
and irregular, and on that irregularity 
icpends so much of their beauty, that we 
must e'en take them with all their wildness, 
and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving 
out the starting note, in both tunes, has, I 
think, an effect that no regularity could 
oouuterbalance the want of. 



Try, 

and 



' Oh Koy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
' Oh lassie wi' the lint-while 
locks. 



fith, J ] 



■ Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
uompare with, { Lassie wi' the lint-white 
locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed sylla- 
ble strike you? In the last case, with the 
true furor of genius, you strike at once into 
the wild originality of the air ; whereas, in 
the first insipid method, it is like the grating 
screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought 
into tur\e. This is my taste; if I am wrong, 
1 beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 

" The Caledonian Hunt " is so charming, 
that it would make any subject in a song go 
down ! but pathos is certainly its native 
Uiu^ue Scottksh bacchanalians we certainly 



want, though the few we have are excellent, 
For instance, "To'dlin harae," is, for wit and 
humour, an unparalleled composition ; and 
"Andrew and his cutty gun," is the work of 
a master. By the way, are you not cpiite 
vexed to think that those men of genius, for 
such they certainly were, who composed our 
fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It 
has given me many a heart-ache. A-propos 
to bacchanalian songs in Scotch, I com- 
posed one yesterday, for an air I like much 
— " Lumps o' pudding." 

[Here follows " Contented wi' Little."] 

If you do not relish tiiis air, I will seud it 
to Jolukioa. 



HO. CCCXXXT. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I hava 
framed a couple of English stanzas, by way 
of an English song to "Roy's Wife." You 
will allow me, that in this instance my 
English corresponds iu sentiment with the 
Scottish. 

[Here followt "Canst thou leave me tints, 
my Katy ?"'] 

Well ! I think this to be done in two or 
three turns across my room, and with two or 
three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so 
far amiss. You see I am determined to have 
my quantum of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that 
we only want the triding circumstance of 
being known to one another, to be the best 
friends on earth), that I much suspect he 
has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the 
stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, 
but it is a very rude instrument. It is com- 
posed of three parts; the stock, which is the 
hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you 
see in a mutton ham ; the horn, which is 
a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at 
the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn until it be helil by the 
thicker end of the thigh-bone; and lastly, 
an oaten reed exactly cut and notched 
like that which you see every shepherd boy 
have, when the corn-stems are green and 
full-grown. The reed is not made fast in 
the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays 
loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while 
the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
larger end, is he'd by the hands iu playitg. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURXS. 



431 



rhe stock ha 5 six or jeven ventiges on the 
upper side, and one back-ventige, like the 
common flute. Thia of mine was made by a 
man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly 
whiit the shepherds are wont to use in that 
country. 

However, either it is not quite properly 
bored in the holes, or else we have not the 
art of blowing it rightly ; for we can make 
little of it. If !Mr. Allan chooses, I will send 
liim a sight of mine, as I look on myself to 
be a kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride 
in poets is nae sin ; " and I will say it, tb.at 
I look on j\[r. Allan and Mr. Burns to be 
the only genuine and real painters of Scottish 
costume in the world. 



NO. cccxxxvi, 
TO PETER MILLER, JuN., Esq. (202), 

OP DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries, November, 1794. 

Dear Sir — Your offer is indeed truly 
generous, and most sincerely do I thank you 
for it ; but in my present situation, I find 
that I dare not accept it. You well know 
my political sentiments ; and were I an 
insular individual, unconnected with a wife 
and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered 
my services : I then could and would have 
despised all consequences that might have 
ensued. 

ily prospect in the Excise is something ; 
at least, it is, encumbered as I am with the 
welfare, the very existence, of near half-a- 
score of helpless individuals — what I dare 
not sport with. 

In tha mean time, they are most welcome 
to my ode ; only, let them insert it as a 
thnig they have met with by accident, and 
unknown to me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose 
honour, after your character of him, I 
cannot doubt, if he will give me an adilress 
and channel by which any thing will come 
safe from those spies with which he may be 
certain that his correspondence is beset, I 
will now and then send him any bagatelle 
that I may write. In the present hurry of 
Europe, nothing but news and pohtics will 
be regarded ; but against tlie days of peace, 
vlnch Heaven send soon, my little assis- 
tance may perhaps till up an idle column of 
a newspaper. I have long had it in my 
head to try my hand in the way of little 
prose essays, which I propose sending into 



the world through the medium of some 
newspaper ; and should these be worth his 
while, to these Mi. Perry shall be welcome: 
and all my reward shall be, his treating me 
with his paper, which, by the bye, to any 
body who has the least relish for wit, is a 
high treat indeed. With the most grateful 
esteem, I am ever, dear Sir, R. B 



NO. CCCXXXVII. 

MK. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

November 28th, 1794. 

I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sir, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delec- 
table correspondent I ever met with. To 
attempt flattering you never entered into my 
head; the truth is. I lookback with surprise at 
my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at 
lines and couplets of your incomparable 
lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served 
me right, you would have sent me to the 
devil. On the contrary, however, yon have 
ail along condescended to invite my criticism 
with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be 
wonderful if I have sometimes giveu myself 
the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget 
demands unquahtied praise : all the songs 
are charming, but the duet is a chef 
d'amvre. "Lumps o' pudding" shall cer- 
tainly make one of my family dishes ; you 
have cooked it so capitally, that it will 
please all palates. Do give us a few more 
of this cast when you find yourself in good 
spirits ; these convivial songs are more 
wanted than those of the amorous kind, of 
which we have great choice. Besides, one 
does not often meet with a singer capable of 
giving the proper effect to the latter, while 
the former are easily sung, and acceptable to 
every body. I participate in your regret 
that the authors of some of our best songs 
are unknown ; it is provoking to every 
admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from 
your beautiful ballad "The Soldier's Re- 
turn," to be engraved for one of my frontis- 
pieces. The most interesting ponit of time 
appears to me, when she first recognises her 
ain dear Willy, "She gaz'd, she redden'd 
like a rose." The three lints immediately 
following are no do ibt more impressive ou 
the reader's feelings ; but we re the painter 
to fix on these, then you'll observe the 
animation and anxiety of her countenance la 
gone, and he covld only represent her faiat« 



38 



m 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



ing in the soldie.-'i arms. But I submit the 
matter to you, and hc^ your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your 
ftcnuate description of the stock and horn, 
end for the very g;ratifying compliment you 
pay him in considering hin. worthy of 
standing in a niche by the side of Burns in 
the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the 
rude instrument you describe, so does not 
want you to send it ; but wishes to know 
whether you believe it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by the 
Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what 
part of the country chiefly. I doubt much 
if it was capable of any thing but routing 
and roaring. A friend of mine says he 
remembers to have heard one in his younger 
days, made of wood instead of your bone, 
and that the sound was abominable. 

Do not, I beseech vou. return any books. 



KO. CCCXXXVIIl. 
BURNS TO MR. THOJISON. 

December, 1794. 

It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart 
to do any thing to forward or add to the 
value of your book ; and as I agree with 
you that the Jacobite song in the JNluseum 
to " There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
hame," would not so well consort with 
Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to that 
air, I have just framed for you the fol- 
lowing : — 

"My Nannie's awa," §•<;. 

How does this please you ? As to the points 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my " Sodger's Return," It must 
certainly be at — " She gaz'd." The in- 
teresting dubiety and suspense taking 
possession of her countenance, and the 
gushing fondness, with a mixtiire of roguish 
playfulness in his, strike me as things of 
which a master will make a great deal. In 
great haste, but iu great truth, yours, R. B. 



NO. CCCXXXIX. 

BURNS TO JIR. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs; however, a few 
may p'ease, yet origiuality is a coy feature 



in composition, and in a multiplitcity of 
efforts in the same style, disappears al- 
together. For these three thousand years, 
we poetic folks have been describing the 
spring, for instance ; and as the spring con- 
tinues the same, there must soon be a same- 
ness in the imagery, &c., of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for 
song-writing. The following is on neithrr 
subject, and consequently is no song ; but 
will be allowed, I think, to be two or three 
pretty good prose thoughts inverted into 
rhyme. 

" For a' that, and a' that." 

I do not give you the foregoing song for 
your book, but merely by way of vive la 
bagatelle ; for the piece is not really poetry. 
How will the following do for " Craigie-bum 
wood?" — 

[Here follows " Craigie-bum wood." 

Farewell ! God blest yoai 



NO. CCCXL. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January 30, 1795. 

!My dear Sir — I thank you heartily for 
" Nannie's awa," as well as for " Craigie- 
bum," which I think a very comely pair. 
Your observation on the difficulty of original 
writing in a number of efforts, in the same 
style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has, 
again and again, excited my wonder to find 
you continually surmounting this difficulty, 
in the many delightful songs you have seut 
me. Your vive la bagatelle song, "For a' 
that," shall undoubtedly be included in my 
list. (203) 



HO. CCCXLI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan, February 7th, 1795. 

My dear Thomson — You cannot have 
any idea of the predicament in which I write 
:o you. In the course of my duty as super- 
visor (in which capacity I have acted of late), 
I came yesternight to this unfortunate 




TO MRS. RIDDEL. 



483 



wicked, little Tillage. (204) I have gone 
forward, I at suows, of teu feet deep, have 
impeded my progress : I have tried to " gae 
back the gate I cam again," but the same 
obstacle has shut me up within insuperable 
bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, 
• scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds 
that would have insulted the dying agonies 
of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and 
thinks himself, on that very account, es- 
ceediug good company. In fact, I have been 
in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget 
these miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid 
of them : like a prudent man (a character 
congenial to my every thought, word, and 
deed), I, of two evils, have chosen the least, 
and am very drunk, at your service ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and. Heaven knows, at present 1 have 
not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it — "We'll gang no more to yon town?" 
I think, in slowish time, it would make an 
excellent song. I am highly delighted with 
it ; and if you shuuld think it worthy of 
your attention, I have a fair dame La my eye, 
to whom I would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish youa 
goo^ night. 



KO. CCCXLII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

February 2oth, 1795. 

I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two 
epistles; one containing "Let me in this ane 
jught ; " and the other from Ecclefechan, 
proving that, drunk or sober, your " mmd is 
never muddy." You have displayed great 
address in the above song. Her answer is 
excellent, and, at the same time, takes away 
the indelicacy that otherwise would have 
attached to his entreaties. I like the song, 
as it now stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to be- 
guile the tedious forenoons by song-making. 
it will give me pleasure to receive the verses 
you intend for " Oh wat ye wha's in yon 
town?" 



NO. CCCXMII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (205) 
May, 1795. 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how 
you like this song. 

[_Here follows the song" On Chloris being ill.' j 

How do you like the foregoing? The 
Irish air, " Humours of Glen," is a great 
favourite of mine, and as, except the silly 
stuff in the " Poor Soldier," there are not 
any decent verses for it, I have written for it 
as follows : — 

[Here follow " Their groves o' siveet myrtle," 
end " 'Twos na her bonnie blue ee was mi/ 
ruin."] 

Let me hear from you. 



{Burnt tupposes himself to be writing from 
the dead to the living^ 

NO. CCCXHV. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

!Madam — I dare say that this is the first 
epistle you ever received from this nether 
world. I write you from the regions of hell, 

amid the horrors of the . The time 

and manner of my leaving your earth I do 
not exactly know, as I took my departure in 
the heat of a fever of intoxication, contracted 
at your too hospitable mansion ; but, on my 
arrival here, i was fairly tried, and sentenced 

I to endjire the purgatorial tortures of this 
infernal conline for the space of ninety-nine 

I years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, 
and all on account of the impropriety of my 
conduct yesternight under your roof Here 
am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I 
think, is Recollection, with a whip of scor- 
pions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, 
and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
Madam, if I could in any measure be rein- 
stated in the good opinion of the fair circle 
whom my conduct last niirht so much injured, 
I think rt would be an alleviation to my tor- 
ments. For this reason, I trouble you with 
this letter. To the men of the company I 
will make no apology. Your husband, who 
insisted on my drinking more thaji I chose^ 
has no right to blame me ; and the otluf 



rr 




iiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiii!iinin!ii:ii!!iiHiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiinnni!iiiiiiniiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii^ 

c^ — S 




(34 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But 
to yoM, Madam, I have much to apologise. 
Your good opinion I valued as one of the 
greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, 
and 1 was truly a beast to forfeit it. Tliere 

was a Miss I , too, a woman of line 

sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do 

laake, on my part, a miserable ■ 

vretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. 

G , a charming woman, did me the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this 
makes me liope tliat I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness. To all the other 
ladies please present my humblest contrition 
for my conduct, and my petition for their 
gracious jiardon. Oh all ye powers of de- 
cency and decorum ! whisper to them that 
my errors, though great, were involuntary — 
that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
beasts — that it was not in ray nature to be 
brutal to any one — that to be rude to a 
woman, when in my senses, was impossible 

with me — but 

• * • • • 

Begret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at 
nay heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
of Madam, your humble slave, B« B. 



no. CCCXLY. 

TO THE SAME. 



Dumfries, 1795. 

Mr. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel 
—is much ol)liged to her for her polite atten- 
tion iu sending hnn tiie book. Owing to 
Mr. B. at present acting as supervisor of 
Excise, a department tliat occupies his every 
hour of the day, he has not that time to 
spare whicli is necessary for any belle-lettre 
pursuit ; but as he will in a week or two 
again return to his wonted leisure, ha will 
then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beauti- 
ful song, " To thee, loved Nith," which it so 
well deserves. (:^0G) When "Anacharsis' 
Travels " come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel 
mentioned as her gift to the public library, 
Mr. B. will feel honoured by the indulgence 
of a perusal of them before presentation : it 
a a book he lias never yet seen, and the 
regulations of the library allow too little 
leisure for dehberaSe reading. 



fMday Evening. 

P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged tc 
Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with u 
perusal of any of her poetical pieces wliiti 
he may not have seen. 



wa occxLvi. 



TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. (207) 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Sir — I enclose you some copies of a couple 
of political ballads, one of which, I believe, 
you have never seen. (208) Would to 
Heaven I could make you master of as many 
votes in the Stewartry — but — 

Who does the utmost that he can. 
Does well, acts nobly — angels could no more. 

In order to bring my humble efforts to 
bear with more effect on the foe, I have pri- 
vately printed a good many co|)ies of both 
ballads, and have sent them among friends 
all about the country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reproba- 
tion of character, the utter dereliction of ail 
principle, in a profligate junto, which has not 
only outraged virtue, but violated common 
decency; which, spurning even hypocrisy as 
paltry iniquity below their daring — to un- 
mask their flagitiousuess to the broadest day 
— to deliver such over to their merited fate 
— is surely not merely innocent, but lauda- 
ble ; is not only propriety, but virtue. You 
have already as your auxiliary, the sober de- 
testation of mankind on the heads of your 
opponents; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia 
to muster on your side all the votaries oi 
honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule 1 

I am extremely obliged to you for your 
kind mention of my interests in a letter 
which Mr. Syme showed me. At present 
my situation in life niTist be in a great mea- 
sure stationary, at least for two or three 
years. The statement is this — I am on the 
supervisors' list, and as we come on there by 
precedency, in two or three years I shall he 
at the head of that list, and be appointea 
of course. Then, a priekd might be ol 
service to me in getting me into a place of 
the kingdom which I would like. A siincr- 
visor's income varies from about a hundred 
and twenty to two hundred a-year ; but the 
business is an incessant drudgery, and would 
be nearly a complete bar to every species oi 
literary pursuit. The moment I am a^; [loiuted 




m^ 



^JjB 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



436 



ii.pfririsor, in the common routine, I may be 
uoiuiuated on the collector's list ; and this is 
always a business purely of political patron- 
age. A collectorship varies much, from better 
than two hundred a-year to near a thousand. 
They also come forward by precedency on 
the list ; and have, besides a handsome in- 
come, a life of complete leisure. A life of 
literary leisure, with a decent competency, 
18 the summit of my wishes. It would be 
the prudish affectation of silly pride in me 
to say that I do not need, or woiJd not be 
indebted to, a political friend ; at the same 
time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you thus, to hook my dependent situation 
on your benevolence. If, in my progress of 
life, an opening should occur where the good 
ofiices of a gentleman of your pub'ic charac- 
ter and political consequence migb . bring me 
forward, I shall petition your goodness with 
the same frankness as I now do myself the 
houour to subscribe myself, &. B. 



KO. CCCXLVIl. 



TO MISS FONTENELLE. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Madam — In such a bad world as ours, 
those who add to the scanty sum of our 
pleasures are positively out benefacto's. To 
you. Madam, on our humble Dumfries hoards. 
I have been more indebted for entertaniment 
than ever I was in prouder theatre*. Your 
charms as a woman would ensure applause 
to the most indifferent actress, and your 
theatrical talents would ensure admiration to 
the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the 
unmeaning or insidious compliment of the 
frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
same honest impidse that the sublime of 
nature excites my admiration, or her beauties 
give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines (209) be of any 
service to you in your approaching benedt 
night ? If they will, I shall be prouder of 
my muse than ever. I'hey are nearly ex- 
tempore : I know they have no great merit ; 
but though they should add but little to the 
entertainment of the evening, they give me 
the happiness of an opportunity to declare 
bow much 1 have the hououi to be, &c. 

H. B. 



NO. CCCXLV^II. 

Mn. THO:\ISON TO BURNS. 

You nmst not think, my good Sir, (hat I 
have any intention to enhance the value ol 
my gift, when I say, in justice to the in- 
genious and worthy artist, that the design 
and execution of the "Cotter's Saturday 
Night " is, in my opinion, one of the happi- 
est productions of Allan's pencil. I shall 
be grievously disappointed if you are not 
quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I 
think strikingly like you, as far as I can 
remember your phiz. This should make 
the piece interesting to your family every 
way. Tell me whether Mrs. Burns findi 
you out among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic " Ad- 
dress to the Woodlark," your elegant pane- 
gyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses 
on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal 
of these gives new delight. The other song 
to " Laddie, lie near me," though uot equal 
to these, it very pleasiug. 



WO. CCCXLIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (210) 

Well! this is not amiss. You see ho\» 
I answer your orders — your tailor could not 
be more punctual. I am just now in a high 
fit for poetising, provided that the strait 
jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you 
can, in a post or two, administer a little of 
the intoxicathig potion of your applause, it 
■will raise your humble servant's frenzy to 
any height you want. I am at this moment 
" holding high converse " with the Muses, 
and have not a word to throw away ou such 
a orosaic dog as you are. 



NO. CCCL. 

BURNS TO MB. TH01\IS0N. 

May. 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant 
present — though I am ashamed of the value 
of it being bestowed on a man who has not. 
by any means, merited such an instance ol 
kindness. I have showu it to two or tlirw 
38* 



£36 



CORRESPONDENCE 01 BURNS. 



)u^i^3 of the first abilities here, and they 
41! agree with me in classing it as a first- 
rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, 
tliat the very joiner's apprentice, wliom Mrs. 
Burns employed to break up the parcel (I 
was out of town that day), knew it at once. 
Jly most grateful compliments to Allan, 
who has honoured my rustic muse so much 
with his masterly pencil. One strange coin- 
cidence is, that the little one who is making 
the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, 
d — n'd, wee, rumble-gairie urchin of mine, 
whom, from that propensity to witty wicked- 
ness, and manfu' mischief, which, even at 
twa days' auld, I foresaw would form the 
striking features of his disposition, I named 
Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, 
who is one of the masters of a grammar- 
ichool in a city which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my 
Ciuch-valued friend Cunningham, and tell 
him, that on Wednesday I go to visit a 
friend of his, to whom his friendly par- 
tiality in speaking of me, in a manner iu- 
trodiiced me — I mean a well-known military 
and literary character, Colonel Dirora. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two 
last sougs. Are they condemned ? 



NC. CCCLI. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

May I3th, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that 
you are all so well satistied with JMr. Allan's 
production. The chance resemblance of 
your little fellow, whose promising disposi- 
tion appeared so very early, and suggested 
M'hom he should be named after, is curious 
enough. I am acquahited with that person, 
who is a prodigy of learning and geuius, and 
a pleasant fellow, though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell 
me you have not merited the drawing from 
me. I do not think I can ever repay you, 
or sufficiently esteem and respect you, for 
the liberal and kind manner in which you 
have entered into the spirit of my under- 
taking, which could not have been perfected 
without you. So I beg you would not 
make a fool of me again by speaking of 
obligation. 

I like your two last aougs very mnch, and 



am happy to find you are in such a high ftt 

of poetising. Long may it last ! Clarke 
has made a fine pathetic air to Mallet'j 
superlative ballad of " William and Marga- 
ret," and is to give it to me, to be enrolled 
among the elect. 



IfO. CCCLII. 



BURNS TO MR. THOIMSON. 

In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my 
lad," the iteration of that line is tiresome to 
my ear. Here goes what 1 thmk is ui 
improvement : — 

" O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae 

mad. 
Thy Jeanie will venture m' ye, my lad." 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine T, 
the Priest of the Nine, oiTer up the incense 
of Parnassus — a dame whom the Graces 
have attired in witchcraft, and whom the 
Loves have armed with lightning — a fair 
one, herself the heroine of the song, insists 
on the araenilment, and dispute her com- 
mands if you dare ! 

^Here follows " Tliis i» no my am lassie."'] 

Do you know that you have roused the 
torpidity of Clarke at last? He has re- 
fiuested me to write three or four songs for 



him, which he is to set to music himself. 
The enclosed sheet contains two songs for 
him, which please to present to my valued 
friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your 
inspection, and that you may copy the song 
" Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier." I do not 
know whether I am right, but that song 
pleases me ; and as it is extremely probaljle 
that Clarke's newly-rou?ed celestial spark 
will be soon smothered in the fogs of indo- 
lence, if you like the song, it may go a^ 
Scottish verses to the air of "I wish my 
love was in a mire ; " and poor Erskine's 
English lines may follow. 

1 enclose > ou a " For a' that and a' that," 
which was never in print ; it is a much 
superior song to mine. I havo been told 
that it was composed by a lady. 

[Here follow the songs, " Now sjmng hot 
clad the i/rove in green," and '' bonnie wai 
yon rosy briar," 



TO MRS, DUNLOP. 



431 



Written on the blank leaf of a copy of 
cUe last edition of my poems, presented to 
the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries 
of passion, but with the most ardent senti- 
ments of real friendship, I have so often 
gun<r under the name of Chloris, is the fol- 
Iciwmg : — 

[" To CJdoris."] 

COILA. 

Uiie bagatelle de I'amitiS. 



NO. CCCLIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edbiburgh, August 3rd, 1795. 

My Dear Sir — This will be delivered 
to you by a Dr. Brianton, who has read 
your works, and pants for the honour of 
your acquaintance. I do not know the 
gentleman ; but his friend, who applied to 
me for this introduction, being an excellent 
young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 
of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and 
my mind feasted, with your last packet — 
full of pleasant things indeed. What an 
imagination is j-ours ! — it is superfluous to 
tell you that I am delighted with all the 
ttirpe songi, as well as with your elegant 
and tender verses to Chloris. 

1 am sorry you should be induced to alter 
" Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad," 
to the prosaic line, " Thy Jeanie will venture 
wi' ye, my lad." I must be permitted to 
e»y, that 1 do not think the latter either 
reads or sings so well as the former. 1 wish, 
therefore, you would in my name petition 
the charming Jeanie, whoever she be, to let 
the hue remain unaltered. 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke pro- 
duce a few airs to be joined, to your verses. 
Everybody regrets his writing so very little, 
as everybody acknowledges his ability to 
write well. Pray was the resolution formed 
coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight 
VOM made over a bowl of punch with the 
bard? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham 
what you have sent hio. 

P. S. — The lady's "For *' that, and a' 
that," is sensible enough, but no more to be 
sompai ed to yours than I to Hercules. 



NO. CCCLIV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (2il^ 

How do you like the foregoing ? I havt 
writtteu it within this hour : so much for 
the speed of my Pegasus ; but what say yoB 
to this bottom. 



NO. CCCLV. 



BURNS TO MR. THO]\ISON. (212) 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of 
this air, that I find it impossible to make 
another stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the toothache, ao 
have not a word to spare. 



NO. CCCLVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

June 3rd, 1795. 

My Dear Sir — Your English verses to 
" Let me in this ane uiglit," are tender and 
beautiful ; and your ballad to the " Lothian 
Lassie " is a master-piece for its humour and 
naioeti. The fragment for the " Caledonian 
Hunt " is quite suited to the original 
measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 
so, the fragment must content it. 1 would 
rather, as 1 said before, have had bacchana- 
lian words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, 
nevertheless, for what we have received. 
Lord, make us thankful 1 



KG. CCCLVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

December I5th, 1798. 

My Dear Friend — As I am in a com. 

plete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, 
stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness hersell 
could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy 
letter with a number of heavier apologiei 
for my late silence. Only one 1 shall men- 
tion, because I know you will sympathise in 
it : these four months, a sweet little girl, 
ray youngest child, has been so ill, that every 
day, a week or less threatened to terminate 
her existence. There had much need be 




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'.fJ^ 



138 



CORRESPONDEXCE OF BURNS. 



many pleasures annexed to the states of 
husband and father, for, God knows, they 
have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
ties frequently give me. 1 see a train of 
helpless little folks ; myself and ray exertions 
all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread 
does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt 
off at the command of fate, even in all the 
vigour of manhood, as I am — such things 
happen every day — Gracious God ! what 
would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here 
that I envy your people of fortune. A 
father on his deathbed, taking an ever- 
lasting leave of his children, has indeed 
woe enough ; but the man of competent 
fortune leaves his sons and daughters 
independency and friends ; while I — but I 
shall run distracted if I think any longer on 
the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, 
I shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" Oh that I had ne'er been married, 

I would never had nae care : 

Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 

They cry crowdie evermair. 

Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, 
Crowdie three times in a day: 

An ye crowdie ony mair, 
Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away." 

December 24fA. 

"We have had a brilliant theatre here this 
season ; only, as all other business does, it 
experiences a stagnation of trade from the 
epidemical complaint of the country, loant of 
cash. I mei>.tioned our theatre merely to 
lug in an occasional Address, which I wrote 
for the benefit night of one of the actresses, 
and which is as follows : — » » * 

2ath, Christmas Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning 
of wishes ; accept mine — so Heaven hear 
me as they are sincere ! — that blessings may 
Wteud yoiir steps, and affliction know you 
*ot ! In the charming words of my favourite 
author. The Man of Feeling, "May the 
Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy grey 
hairs, and bluuc the arrow that brings them 
rest !■" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
like Cowper ? Is not the " Task " a glorious 
poem ? The religion of the " Task," bating 
a few scraps of Calvanistic divinity, is the 
leligion of God and Nature — the reUgion 
that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not 
you to send me your " Zelnco," in return for 
aiine ? Tell ine how you like my marks and 



notes through the book. I would not give a 
farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty 
to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's peru- 
sal, all my letters ; I mean those which 1 
first sketched, in a rough draught, and after- 
wards wrote out fair. On looking over some 
old musty papers, which from time to tim» 
I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce 
worth preserving, and which yet, at the same 
time, I did not care to destroy, I discovered 
many of these rude sketches, and have 
written, and am writing them out, in a bound 
MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote 
always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 
I cannot find a single scroll to you, except 
one, about the commencement of our ac- 
quaintance. If there N<ere any possible con- 
veyance, I would send you a perusal of 
my book. R. B. 



KO. CCCLVIII. 

TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATEB 

(£lo), 

SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 

Sir — Enclosed are the two schemes. I 
would not have troubled you with the col- 
lector's one, but for suspicion lest it he not 
right. Mr. Erskine promised me to make it 
right, if you v»ill have the goodness to sliow 
him how. As I have no copy of the scheme 
for myself, and the alterations being very 
considerable from what it was formerly, I 
hope that I shall have access to this scheme 
I send you, when I come to face up my new 
books. So vnich for schemes. And that no 
scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a 
stranger; to seduce a young girl, or 
rob a hen-roost; to subvert liberty, or 
bribe an exciseman; to disturb the 
general assembl\, or annoy a gossip- 
PING; to overthrow *he credit of ortho- 
doxy, or the authority of old songs ; to 
oppose your wishes, or frustrate my hopes, — 
m^y prosper — is the sincere wish and 
prayer of R B. 



NO. CCCLIX. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Sir — You will see, by your subscribers' 
list, that I have been about nine months o/ 
that number. 



TO MES. DUNLOP. 



433 



t am sorry to inform you that in that time 
leven or eight of your papers either have 
never been sent me, or else have never 
reached me. To be dei)rived of any one 
iium'oer of the first newspaper in Great 
Britain for information, abihty, and inde- 
pendence, is wliat I cin ill brook and bear ; 
but to be deprived oi that most admirable 
oration of the IMarquis of Lansdowne, when 
he made the great, though inetfectual at- 
tempt (iu the language of the poet, I fear 
too true) "to save a sinking state" — 
this was a loss that I neither can, nor will 
forgive you. That paper, Sir, never reached 
me; but I demand it of you. lamaBEiTON, 
and must be interested in the cause of 
liberty; I am a man, and the rights 
OF HUMAN NATURE canuot be indifferent to 
me. However, do uot let me mislead you — 
I am not a man in that situation of life, 
which, as your subscriber, can be of any 
consequence to you, ia the eyes of those to 
whom Situation of life alone is the 
criterion of man. I am but a plain trades- 
man, in this distant, obscure cpuutry towu ; 
but that humble dom'cile in which I shelter 
my wife and children, is the Castellum of 
B Briton ; and that scanty, hard-earned 
income which supports them, is as truly my 
property, as the most magnificent fortune of 
the most puissant member of your house 
of noble.s. 

These, Sir, are my sentiments, and to 
them I subscribe my name ; and were I a 
man of ability and consequence enough to 
address the public, with that name should 
they appear. I am, &c. (214) 



HO. CCCLX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 2Qth December, 1795. 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in 
this London journey of yours. In the first 
place, when your last to me reached Dum- 
fries, I was iu the country, and did not 
return until too late to answer your letter ; 
in the next place, I thought you would cer- 
tainly take this route ; and now I know not 
what is become of you, or whether this may 
reach you at all. God grant that it may 
find you and yours in prospering health and 
good spirits ! Do let me hear from you the 
■oonest possible. 



As I hoj e to get a frank from my friend 
Captain JliUer, I shaU, every leisure Lour, 
take up the pen, and gossip away whate\er 
comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. 
In this last article I have abounded of late. 
I have often mentioned to you a superb pub. 
licatiou of Scottish songs, whiBh is making 
its appearance in your great metropolis, and 
where I have the honour to preside over the 
Scottish verse, as no less a personage than 
Peter Fiudar does over the English. 

December 29th. 

Since I began this letter, I have been ap- 

poiftted to act in the capacity of supervisor 
here, and I assure you, what with tlie load 
of business, and what with that business 
being new to me, I could scarcely have com- 
manded ten minutes to have spoken to you, 
had you been in town, much less to iiave 
written you an epistle. This appointment 
is only temporary, and during the illness of 
the present incumbent ; but I look forward 
to an early period when 1 shall be appointed 
in full form — a consummatioa devoutly to be 
wished ! My political sius seem to be for 
giveu me. 

^This is the season (New-year's-day is now 
my date) of wishes ; and mine are most 
fervently offered up for you ! iMay lite to 
you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for 
your own sake; and that it may yet be 
greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own 
sake, and for the sake of the rest of your 
friends I What a transient business is life? 
Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I 
was a young man ; and I already begin to 
feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
old age coining fast o'er my frame. With 
all my follies of youth, and I fear, a ievr 
vices of manhood, still I congi-atulate myself 
on having had, in early days, religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. I have nothing to 
say to any one as to which sect he belongs 
to, or what creed he believes ; but 1 look ou 
the mau who is firmly persuaded of inlinite 
wisdom and goodness superintending and 
directing every circumstance that can luippen 
in his lot — I felicitate such a man as lia\ ing 
a solid foundation for his mental enjoyiuenc 
— a firm prop and sure stay iu the hour of 
difficulty, trouble, and distress — and a never- 
fading anchor of hope, wheu he looks beyond 
the grave. 

January \2th. 

You will have seen our worthy and inge- 
nious friend, the doctor, long ere this. I 
hope he is well, and beg to be remembered 
to him. I have j ist been reading over ai;aiij, 



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MO 



OORHESPONDENCE OF BUKNS, 



I dare saj for the htmdred and fiftieth time, 
his View of Society and Manners; and still 
I read it with delight. His humour is per- 
fectly original — it is neither the humour of 
Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any- 
body but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have 
deprived me of Zeluco; remember that, when 
you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 
He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quotiuK me iu his last publicatiou (215). 
&. B. 



NO. CCCLXI. 



ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH 
DISTILLERS 

TO THE EIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 

Sir — While pursy burgesses crowd your 
gate, sweating under the weight of heavy 
addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers 
in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, 
to approach you, not with venal approbatio%, 
but with fraternal condolence ; not as what 
you are just now, or for some time have been, 
but as what, in all probability, j'ou will 
shortly be. We shall have the merit of not 
deserting our friends in the day of their 
calamity, and you wiD have the satisfaction 
of perusing, at least, one honest address. 
You are well acquainted with the dissection 
of human nature ; nor do you need the 
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to 
inform you, that man is always a selfish, 
often a perfidious being. This assertion, 
however the hasty conclusions of superficial 
observation may doubt of it, or the raw inex- 
perience of youth may deny it, those who 
make the fatal experiment we have done, 
will feel. You are a statesman, and conse- 
quently are not ignorant of the traffic of 
these corporation compliments. The little 
great man who drives the borough to market, 
and the very great man who buys the borough 
iu that market, they two do the whole busi- 
ness ; and you well know, they, likewise, 
have their price. With that sullen disdain 
which you can so well assume, rise illustricrus 
Sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal 
stupidity. At best they are the compliments 
of a man's friends on the morning of his 
execution : they take a decent farewell : 
resign you to yo\ir fate ; and hurry away 
from your approaching hour. 



If fame say true, and omens be not very 
much mistaken, you are about to make your 
exit from that werld where the sun of glad, 
ness gilds the paths of prosperous men : 
permit us, great Sir, with the syn pathy oi 
fellow-feeling, to hail your passage to the 
realms of ruin. 

Wliether the sentiment proceed from the 
selfishness or cowardice of mankind, is imma- 
terial ; but to point out to a child of misfor- 
tune those who are still more unhappy , is to 
give him some degive of positive enjov mcnt. 
In this light. Sir, our downfall may be again 
useful to you : though not exactly in tlie 
same way, it is not, perhaps, the first time 
it has gratified your feelings. It is true, 
the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly 
despiteful. At an age whe;i others are the 
votaries of pleasure, or underlings in business, 
you had attained the highest wish of a 
British statesman ; and with the ordinary 
date of human life, what a prospect was 
before you! Deeply rooted in royal favour, 
you overshadowed the land. The birds of 
passage which follow ministerial sunshine 
through every clime of political faith and 
manners, flocked to your branches ^ and the 
beasts of the field (the lordly possessors oi 
hills and valleys) crowded under your shade. 
" But behold a watcher, a holy one, came 
down from heaven, and cried aloud, and said 
thus : Hew down the tree, and cut off his 
branches ; shake off his leaves, and scatter 
his fruit; let the beasts get away from under 
it, and the fowls from his branches ! " A 
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of 
those terrible accidents which peculiarly 
mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your 
career, and laid all your fancied honours in 
the dust. But turn your eyes. Sir, to the 
tragic scenes of our fate. An ancient nation, 
that for many ages had gallantly maintained 
the unequal struggle for independence with 
her much more powerful neighbour, at la?t 
agrees to a union which should evgr after 
make them one people. In consideration of 
certain circimistances, it was covenanted that 
the former should enjoy a stipulated allevia- 
tion in her share of the public burdens, 
particularly in that branch of the reveime 
called the Excise. This just privilege has of 
late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part 
of the empire, and they have spt.red no 
wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to 
subvert what they dared not openly to attack, 
from the dread which they yet entertained 
of the spirit of their ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell; nor did wj 
alone suffer — our country was deeplj 



TO MRS. DmaOP. 



441 



srounded. A numl«r of (we will say) 
respectable indi"iduals, largely engaged in 
trade, where we were uot only useful, but 
absolutely necessary, to our country in her 
dearest interests ; we, with all that was near 
and dear to us, were sacrificed, without 
remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
Iieiiiency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of 
dark envy, and the views of unprincipled 
ambition ! Your foes, Sir, were avowed ; 
were too trave to take an ungenerous advan- 
tage : you fell in the face of day. On the 
contrary, our enemies, to complete our over- 
throw, contrived to make their guilt appear 
tlie villany of a nation. Your downfall only 
drags with you your private friends and 
partisans : in our misery are more or less 
involved the most numerous and most valu- 
able part of the community — all those who 
immediately depend on the cultivation of 
the soil, frorti the landlord of a province 
down to hislowest hind. 

Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at 
another rich vein of comfort m the dreary 
regions of adversity — the gratul^itions of an 
approving conscience. In a certain great 
assembly, of which you are a distinguished 
member, panegyrics on your private virtues 
have so often wounded your delicacy, that, 
we shall not distress you with anything on 
the subject. There is, however, one part of 
your public conduct which our feelings will 
not permit us to pass in silence ; our grati- 
tude must trespass on your modesty : we 
mean, worthy Sir, your whole behaviour to 
the Scots distillers. In evil hours, when 
obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the 
sense, let that. Sir, come, like a healing angel, 
and speak the peace to your soul which the 
(vorld can neither give nor take away. We 
have the honour to be, Sir, your sympa- 
thising fellow-sufferers and grateful humble 
•crvauts, 

John BAELSYCoaN, Praeses. 



NO. CCCLXII. 



10 THE HON. THE PKOVOST, 
BATTIES, AND TOWN COUNCIL OF 
DUMFREEii 

Gentlemen — The literary taste and 
liberal spirit of your goi id town has so ably 
filled the various departments of your 
schools, as to niakt it a very great object for 
a parent to have his children educated in 
them. Still, to me, a stranj-er, with my 



large family, and very stinted income, to 
give my young ones that education I wish, 
at the high-school fees which a stranger pays, 
will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me 
the honour of making me an honorary l/ur- 
gess. Will you allow me to request that 
this mark of distinction may extend so far 
as to put me on a footing of a real freeman 
of the town, in the schools ? 

If you are so very kind as to grant my 
request, it will certainly be a constant incen- 
tive to me to strain every nerve where I can 
officially serve you ; and will, if possible, 
increase that grateful respect with which I 
have the honour to be, gentlemen, your 
devoted, humble servant, B.B. (216) 



no. cccLxiiz. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
Dumfries, January 20th, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you 
for, allowing me a longer perusal of " Aua- 
charsis." In fact, I never met with a book 
that bewitched me so much; and I, as a 
member of the library, must warmly feel 
the obligation you have laid us under. 
Indeed, to me the obligation is stronger than 
to any other individual of our society; as 
" Anacharsis" is an indispensable desideratum 
to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morn- 
ing's card, is, I think, Hown from me for 
ever. I have not been able to leave my bed 
to-day till about an hour ago. These 
v.ickedly unlucky advertisements 1 lent (I did 
wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go 
in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. 
Tlie follo\\'ing detached stanzas I intend to 
interweave in aome disastrous tale of a 
sheuherd. B^ B. 



NO. CCCLXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, January 3lst, 1796 

These many m.mths you have been two 
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance 
I have committed agair.st so highly valued 
a friend, I am utterly at a loss to guena. 




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tfelte 




(42 



COEEESrONDENCE OF BUENS. 



Alas ! Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, 
to be deprived of any of the small remnant 
of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep 
of the cup of alUiction. The autumn robbed 
me of ray only daughter and darling child 
(217), and tlr.at at a distance, too, and so 
rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay 
the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun 
to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, 
after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to 
have turned up life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once, indeed, 
have been before my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 
Affliction purifies the visual ray. 

Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 
And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful 
d«y. K. B. 



KO CCCLXVI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
lome, elegant piesent to Mrs. Burns, and 



WO. CCCLXV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Fehmary 5th, 1796. 

Oh Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet? 

Or are ye wauking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, 
is awful ! Am I never to hear from you 
again? I know, and I lament how much 
you have been afflicted of late; but I trust 
that returning health and spirits will now 
enable you to resume the pen, and delight 
us with your musings. I have still about a 
dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish 
"married to immortal verse." We have 
several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish 
list ; but they are now naturalized, and 
reckoned our own good subjects. Indeed, 
we have none better. I believe I before told 
you that I have beeu much urged by some 
friends to publish a collection of all our 
favourite airs and songs in octavo, embel- 
lished with a number of etchings by our 
ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opinion 
Of this? 



for my remaining volume of 1'. Pinlat. 

Peter is a delightful fellow, and a fi'-st favou- 
rite of mine. I am much pleased with youi 
idea of publishing a collection of our songa 
in octavo with etchings. I am extremely 
willing to lend every assistance in my power. 
The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake 
the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt threo 
with words, and the oriier day I strung up a 
kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian 
melody, which I admire much. 

[Here follows " Hey for a lass to? a tocher^ 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I 
dislike one thing; the name Chloris — I 
meant it as the fictitious name of a certain 
lady : but, on second thoughts, it is a high 
incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a 
Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some 
things else, in my next : I have more amend- 
ments to propose. What you once men- 
tioned of " flaxen locks " is just r they 
cannot enter into an elegant description of 
beauty. Of tliis also again — God bless 
you ! (218), 



NO. CCCLXVII. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Your "Hey for a lass wi' a tocher" is n 
most excellent song, and with you the 
subject is something new indeed. It is the 
first time I have seen you debasing the god 
of soft desire into an amateur of acres axw* 
guineas. 

I am happy to find you approve of my 
proposed octavo edition. Allan has designee 
and etched about twenty plates, and I am to 
have my choice of them for that work. 
Independently of the Hogarthian humour 
with which they abound, they exhibit the 
character and costume of the Scottish pea- 
santry with inimitable felicity. In this 
respect, he himself says, they will far exceed 
the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle 
Shepherd, because in the etching he sees 
clearly what he is doing, but not so with the 
aquatinta, which he could not manage to his 
mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely 
more oharacteristic and natural than thii 
Scottish figures in those etchings. 



BURNS TO Jm. THOMSON. 



443 



K(. CCCLXVIII. 

BXfRNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will 
be some time ere I tune my lyre again ! 
" By Babel streams I have sat and wept " 
llinost ever since I wrote you last ; I have 
only kno\Mi existence by the pressure of the 
heavy hand of sickness, and have counted 
time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheu- 
matism, cold and fever, have formed to me 
a terible combination. I close my eyes in 
misery, and open them without hope. I 
look on the vernal day, and say with poor 
Fergusson, 

pay wherefore has an all-indnlgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given? 

This vrill be delivered to you by a IMrs. 
Ilyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, 
which for these many years has been my 
house, and where our friend Clarke and I 
have had many a merry squeeze. I am 
highly delighted with Mr. Allau's etchings. 
" VVoo'd an' married an' a'," is admirable ! 
The grouping is beyond all praise. The 
expression of the figures, conformable to the 
Btory in the ballad, is absolutely faultless 
perfection. I next admire " Turnimspike." 
What I like least is " Jenny said to Jocky," 
Besides the female being in her appearance 
•**♦*, if you take her stooping into the 
account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I 
sincerely sympathise with him. Happy I 
am to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me — but that is a sad subject 1 



NO. CCCLXnt 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

3Iay Ath, 1796. 

I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what 
concern the receipt of your last ga\e me, 
and how much I sympathise in your sutfer- 
jiigs. But do not, I beseech you, give 
yourself up to despondency, or speak the 
language of despair. The vigour of your 
toiistitution, 1 trust, will soon set you on 
your feet agaiu ; and then, it is to be hoped, 
you will see the wisdom and the necessity 
of taking due care of a life so valuable to 



your famOy, to your friend% and to the 
world. 

Trusting that your next will biing 
agreeable accounts of your convalescence 
and returning good spirits, I remain, with 
sincere regard, yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you in good condition. 



NO. CCCLXX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

My dear Sir — I once mentioned ta 
you an air which I have long admired — 
" Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney," 
but I forget if you took any notice of it. I 
have just been trying to suit it with verses, 
and 1 beg leave to recommend the air to 
your attention ouce more. I have only 
begun it. 

[Ilere follow the three first stanzas of the 
soiHj : the fourth was found among his MSS 
after his death.'] 



NO. CCCLXXI. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, 
a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he 
will be a day or two in town, you will hav*i 
leisure, if you choose, to write me by him : 
and if you have a spare half hour to spend 
with him, I shall place your kindness to my 
account. I have no copies of the songs I 
have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to 
review them all, and possibly may mend 
some of them : so, when you have complete 
leisure, I will thank you for either the 
originals or copies. (219) I had rather be 
the author of five well-written songs than oi 
ten otherwise. 1 have great hopes that the 
genial influence of the approaching sunnuei 
will set me to rights, but as yet I caunci 
' buast of returning health. I have now rea- 
son to believe that my complaint is a flying 
gout — a sad business 1 

Do let me know how Gfeghorn is, and 
remember me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you I 
month ago. I am still very poorly, buT 
sli;)uld like much to hear from you. 
39 



C44 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



NO. CCCLXXII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO TPIE BIRTHDAY 

ASSEMBLY, ON THAT DAY, TO SHOW HIS 

LOYALTY. 

Dumfries, June 4th, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be 
Etterly incapable of showing my loyalty in 
liny way. Racked as I am with rheumatism, 
I meet every face with a greeting, like that 
of Balak — " Come, curse nie, Jacob ; and 
tome, defy me, Israel ! " So say I — Come, 
curse me that east wind ; and come, defy 
me the north ! Would you have me in such 
circumstances copy you out a love- song! 

I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but 
I will not be at the ball. Why should I ? — 
"man delights not me, nor woman either! " 
Can you supply me with the song, "Let us 
all be unhappy together" — do if you can, 
and obhge le pauvre miserable, R. B. 



NO. CCCLXXm. 

TO MR. CLARKE, 

SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. 

Dumfries, June 26th, 1796. 

My Dear Clarke — Still, the victim of 
affliction ! Were you to see the emaciated 
figure who now holds the pen to you, you 
would not know your old friend. Whether 
I shall ever get about again, is only known 
t« Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature 
I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the 
worst. As to my individual self, I am tran- 
quil, and would despise myself if I were not; 
but Burns's poor widow, and half-a-dozen 
of his dear little ones — helpless orphans I — 
there I am weak, as a woman's tear. 
Enough of this ! 'Tis half of my disease. 

I duly received your last, enclosing the 
iiote. It came extremely in time, and I am 
much obliged by your punctuality. Again 
I must request you to do me the same kind- 
'less. Be so very good as, by return of 
past, to enclose me another note. I trust 
70U can do it without inconvenience, and it 
will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I 
shall leave a few friends behind me, whom 
I shall regret while consciousness remains. 
I know 1 shall live in their remembrance. 
Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see 
\ iiu again, is, I am afraid, higlUy improbable. 
R. B. 



NO. CCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries, July ith, 179C. 

How are you, my dear rriend, and bow 
comes on your fifth volume ! You may 
probably think that for some time past 1 
have neglected you and your work ; but, 
alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and 
care, has these many months lain heavy ou 
me. Personal and domestic affliction have 
almost entirely banished that alacrity and 
life with which I used to woo the rural muse 
of Scotia. 

You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, 
and have a good right to live in this world 
— because you deserve it. Many a merry 
meeting this publication has given us, and 
possibly it may give us more, though, alas ! 
I fear it. This ])rotracting, slow, consuming 
illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt 
much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun 
before he has well reached his middle career, 
and will turn over the poet to far more im- 
piirtant concerns than studying the brilliancy 
of wit, or the pathos of sentiment. How- 
ever, liope is the cordial of the human heart 
and I endeavour to cherish it as well as i 
can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as con- 
venient. Your work is a great one ; and 
now that it is finished, I see, if we were to 
begin again, two or three things that might 
be mended ; yet I will venture to prophesy, 
that to future ages your publication will be 
the text-book and standard of Scottish song 
and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of 
you, because you have been so very good 
already ; but my wife has a very particular 
friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, 
to whom she wishes to present the " Scots 
]\Iusical jMuseum." If you have a spare 
copy, will you be so obliging as to send it 
by the very first fly, as 1 am anxious tc 
have it soon. (220j Yours ever, 

fi. B. 



NO. CCCLXXV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-hatking Quarters, 
July 7th, 1796. • 

My Dear Cunningham — I received 
yours here this morning, aud aw indeed 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



44« 



highly flattered with the approbation of the 
Lterary circle you mention — a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! 
my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will 
soon be heard among you no more. For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
sometimes bedfast, and sometimes not ; but 
these last three months I have been tortured 
with an excruciating rheumatism, which has 
reduced me to nearly the last stage. You 
actually would not know me if you saw me. 
Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally 
to need help from the chair — my spirits 
fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on the sub- 
ject ; only the medical folks tell me that my 
last and only chance is bathing, and country 
quarters and ridnig. The deuce of the 
matter is this ; when an e.Keiscraan is off 
duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead 
of £50. What way, in the name of thrift, 
shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse ia 
country quarters, with a wife, and five chil- 
dren at home, on £35 ? I mention this, 
because I had intended to beg your utmost 
iuterest, and that of all the friends you 
can muster, to move our commissioners of 
Excise to grant me the full salary ; I dare 
gay you know them all personally. If they 
do not grant it me (221), I must lay my 
account with an exit truly ea poete — if 
I die not of disease, I must perish with 
hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the 
other my memory does not serve me with, 
and I have no copy here; but I shall be at 
home soon, when I will send it you. A-propos 
to being at home, — Mrs. Burns threatens in 
week or or two to add one more to my 
paternal charge, which, if of the right 
gender, I intend shall be introduced to the 
world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Cunningham Burns. My last was 
James Glencairn, so you can have no 
objection to the company of nobility. 
FareweU. R. B. 



KO. CCCLXXVI. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

July loth, 1796. 

Dear Brother— It will be no very 
pleasing news to you to be told that I am 
dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. 
A.n inveterate rheumatism has reduced me 
to such a state of debility, and my appetite 
is 80 totally gone, that I can scarcely stand 



on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 
bathing, and I will contiuue there, or in a 
friend's house iu the country, all the sum- 
mer. God keep my vrife and children : if I 
am takeu from their head, they will be poat 
indeed. I have contracted one or two 
serious debts, partly from my illness these 
many months, partly from too much thought- 
lessness as to expense when I came to town, 
that will cut m too much on the little I 
leave them in your hands. Remember me 
to my mother. Yours, B. B. 



KO. CCCLXXVll, 

TO MRS. BURNS. 



Brow, Thursday. 

My Dearest Love — I delayed writing 
until I could tell you what effect sea-batliing 
was likely to produce. It would be injustice 
to deny that it has eased my pains, and I 
think has strengthened me ; but my appetite 
is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish 
can I swallow : porridge and milk are the 
only thing I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are 
all well. My very best and kindest com- 
pliments to her, and to all the children. I 
will see you ou Sunday. Your affectionate 
husband, &• B. 



NO. CCCLXXVIir. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Brow, Saturday, July I2th, 1796. 

Madam — I have written you so often, 
without receiving any answer, that I would 
not trouble you again, but for the circumstan- 
ces iajwhich I am. An illness which has long 
hung about me, in all probability will 
speedily send me beyond that bourne whence 
no traveller returns. Your friendship, with 
which for many years you honoured me, 
was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your 
conversation, and especially your corres- 
pondence, were at once highly entertaining 
and instructive. With what pleasure did I 
use to break up the seal ! The remem- 
brance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! 

B. B. (222) 



140 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. CCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 

Bmnfries, July \2th, 1796. 

My DEAR Cousin — When you oifered 
me money assistance, little did I think I 
should want it so soon. A rascal of a 
haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that I am dying-, 
has commenced a process against me, and 
will inf;dlil)ly put my emaciated body into 
jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate 
me, and that by return of post, with tea 
pounds ? Oh, James ! did you know the 
pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for 
me ! Alas ! I am not used to beg. The 
worst of it is, my health was coming about 
finely, you know ; and my physician assured 
me, that melancholy and low spirits are half 
my disease : — guess, then, my horrors since 
this business began. If I had it settled, I 
would be, I think, quite well in a manner. 
How shall I use the language to you, — oh do 
not disappoint me ! — but strong necessity's 
curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my 
brother's affairs, and I fear I must cut him 
lip ; but on this I will correspond at another 
time, particularly as I shall [require] your 
advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by 
return of post :— save me from the horrors ot 
a jail ! <223) 

My compliments to my friend James, and 
to all the rest, I do not know what I have 
written. The subject is so horrible, I dare 
Bot look it ovei agaiu. Fikrevveil 1 

K B. 



wo CCCTL.KXX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

Brow, on the Solway -frith, 

July 12th, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, curst 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, 
to whom I owe an account, taking it into his 
head that I am dying, has commenced a 
process, and will infallibly put me into jail, 
bo, for God's sake, send me that sum, and 
that by return of post. Forgive me this 



earnestness, hut the honors of a jail hav« 
made me half distracted. I do not ask all 
this gratuitously , for, upon returning health, 
I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds' worth of the neatest song- 
genius you have seen. I tried my hand on 
" Rotliermurche " this morning. I'he mea- 
sure is so difficult that it is impossible to 
infuse much genius into the lines ; they are 
ou the other side. Forgive, forgive me 1 {22'k) 



NO CCCLXXXI. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

July Uth, 1796. 

My DEAR Sir — Ever since I received 
your melancholy letters by Mrs. Hyslop, I 
have been ruminating in what manner I 
could endeavour to alleviate your sufferings. 
Again and again I thought of a pecuniary 
offer, but the recollection of one of your 
letters ou this subject, and the fear of offend- 
ing your independent spirit, che<;kcd my 
resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, 
for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, 
and, with great pleasure, enclose a draft for 
the very sum 1 proposed sending (225). 
Would I were Chancellor of the Excheciuer 
but for one day, for your sake ! 

Pray, ray good Sir, is it not possible hit 
you to muster a volume of poetry ? If too 
much trouble to you, in the present state of 
your health, some literary friend might be 
found here, who would select and arrange 
from your manuscripts, and take u])on hiia 
the task of editor. In the meantime, it 
could be advertised to be published by sub- 
scription. Do not shun this mode of oljtain- 
ing the value of your labour : remember. 
Pope published the Iliad by subscription. 
Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not 
reckon me intrusive with my advice. You 
are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear your to impute anything I 
say to ata unworthy motive. Yours faith» 
fully. 

The verses to "Rotliermurche" will 
answer finely. I am happy to see you can 
still tune your lyr«. 



J^^C 



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imniiiiiiiuiiiiih'.iiiiiiiHiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiHii: 





TO JAMES ARMOUR. 



US 



MO. CCCtXXXH, 

TO JAMES GRACIE, Esa. 

Brow, Wednesday morning, 
July mh, 1796. 

R'^Y Dear Sir — It would be doing 
n^li iujustice to this place not to acknow- 
kdjre that my rheumatism has derived great 
beiielits from it already ; but, alas ! my 
loss of appetite still continues. I shall not 
need your kind offer this week (226), and I 
rHurn to town the beginning of next week, 
it not being a tide week. I am detaining a 
man in a burumg hurry. So, God bless 

K.B. 

89 



NO. CCCLXXXlrt. 

TO JAMES ARMOUR (227), 

MASON, MAUCHLINE. 

Dumfries, July, \8th, 1796. 

My Dear Sir — Do, for Heaven's sake, 
send Mrs. Armour here immediately. My 
wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. 
Good God I what a situation for her to be 
in, poor girl, without a friend ! I returned 
firom sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my 
medical friends woiild almost persuade me 
that I am better, but I think and feel that 
my strength is so gone, that the disordffl 
will prove fatal to me. Your son-in-law. 




I5nra 



m SaS liFB, POEMS, CORRESPONDMNCS 
OP BUENS 



Uates k tjie fife nf iitrnisi. 



Paqb 4, Note 1. — ^To account for the 
co-existence of a taste for dancing, music, 
snd song-, w-ith the austere religious feelings 
above descriheJ, we must bear in mind that 
the latter are not of such long standing, 
having only existed in great force since the 
time of the civil wars. It is also to be observed, 
that those tastes and those feelings did not 
aluays possess the same minds. Throughout 
the most rigid times, the young formed a 
party whom the promptings of nature com- 
pelled to favour mirthful recreation and the 
productions of the muse, all preachings 
from the old notwithstanding. Then the 
Episcopalian or Jacobite party, formed a 
large and important exception from the 
general spirit of the nation, being declared 
patrons of not only dancing and song, but 
of theatricals. 

Page 4, Note 2. — Till arecent period,and 
previous to the reign of George I., the his- 
tory of Scottish music was a matter of con- 
jecture only. Even the remark in the text 
as to the existence of music before the 
Reformation, had no proper basis. The 
existence of popular airs at a time little sub- 
seiiuent to the Reformation, including some 
which still flourish, is at length ascertained, 
in consequence of the discovery of an MS. 
collection of airs, which belonged to Sir 
John Skene of Currie-hill, and must have 
, been written about the year 1620. See au 
flegant and laborious work by Wilham 
I'auncy, Esq, Advocate, 4to., 1838. 

Page 5, NoTe 3. — Tlie North American 



Indians, among whom the attaehmral 
between the sexes is said to be weak, and 
love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, 
seem nearly unacq<iainted with the charms 
of poetry and music. — See Weld's Tour. 
We quote this as an explanatory reference. 
It is, however, very far from the truth ia 
both respects ; with due deference to the 
information whence Dr. Currie drew hi* 
authority. 

Page 5, Note 4. — Edward Gibbon. 

Page 6, Note 5. — This practice has 
ceased to prevail, so that the remarks of Dr. 
Currie on this subject are uo longer appli- 
cable. 

Page 6, Note 6. — In this instance, again, 
the description of Dr. Currie is no longer 
applicable. And it is rather true, at present, 
that the tenant farmers of Scotland are 
superior, than that they are inferior to the 
same class in England; aud there is cer- 
tainly as much evidence of comfort in their 
mode of living. There has been a very 
rapid progress made in agricultural science, 
especially amongst the Lowland farmers o£ 
late years ; and even the labouring classes 
are upon an equal footing in respect of means 
and comforts in both portions of great 
Britain, whereas, they are certainly better 
informed and educated in Scotland. Suppo- 
sing the remark to be reserved to the holders 
of land, or the capitalist peasantry, so to call 
them, the distiuctiou has here even ceased 
to exist. 

Page 7. Note 7. — ^The rapid increase in 








iri'l 



NOTES TO THE 



the i;oisumprion of spirituous liquors is 
truly astonishing. Ihe following figures 
ujve been stated by a cuntemporary : " The 
amount of the duty on spirits distilled in 
Scotland is now upwards of £250,000 per 
annum. In 1777, it did not reach £8000." 
Allowing for the difference of values, and of 
the scale of duties levied, there is yet an 
enormous disparity ; and, when it is con- 
iidered that this is nidependently of all 
merely fermented liquors, an idea may be 
formed of the immense increase in the con- 
tumption of intoxicating beverages. Taking 
«S'»iu the returns of distillery for 1832, we 
have a gross of 5,407,097 gallons, and an 
aggregate duty of nearly a million sterling. 

Page 11, Note 8. — According to some 
authorities, the fiiir heroine of this young 
passion was called Nelly Blair. The lines 
which immortalized her are those which 
eommence — "Once I loved a bonnie lass." 

?.\&E 12, Note 9.— In October, 1837, 
the editor conversed at Tarbolton with John 
Lees, shoemaker, who, when a stripling, used 
to act as Burns's second in his courting ex- 
peditions. The old man spoke with much 
glee of tlie aid he had given the poet in the 
way of uskinij out lasses for him. AVhen he 
had succeeded in bringing the girl out of 
doors, he of course became Monsieur de 
Trnp, and Burns would say, " Now, Jack, ye 
may gang hame." 

Page 12, Note 10. — A correspondent of 
the Scotsman newspaper, 1828, communi- 
cated the following as recollections of Burns 
in his early rustic years: — "He was par- 
ticularly distinguished at that species of 
merry-maknig called ' Rockiiigs,' wliich are 
freeiucntly alluded to in his writings. This 
kind of meeting is, or was (for 1 suppose 
the change of manners will have suppressed 
this innocent species of ' play ' ) formed of 
young people — servants generally, of both 
sexes, to the neighbouring farmers — who 
were allowed, during moonlight, to meet 
alternately at their respective houses, each 
lass thriftily carrying with her the spinning- 
wheel, and, while the song and the tale went 
round, never failing to complete her assigned 
task of spinning ; the lads, in the meanwhile, 
being as busily employed in knitting the 
stocking : the entertainment ending with a 
supper of a particidar dish or two of country 
fare. On these occasions my narrator 
remembers well the distinguished part 
Burns used to take in the business of the 
evening. Often has she met him at the 
head of a little troop, coming from a distance 
of three or four miles, with the spinning- 
wheel of his favourite, for the tinie being, 



mounted on his shoulders, and his a^ 
proach announced by the bursts of mern- 
meut which his ready and rough jokes had 
excited amongst the group. It was always 
expected that some new effusion of his 
muse should be produced to promote tlie 
enjoyment of the party, and sel-dom were 
they disappointed, ' Rob Burns's last 
night's poem' generally reaching the parlour 
in the course of the next day. At the 
kitchen of my friend's father (an extensive 
land proprietor) Burns's visits were of such 
frequency and dnration as to call down the 
animadversions of the lady of the house, the 
alertness of her damsels in the morning 
being at times impaired by his unreasonable 
gallantry. This was supposed to be occa- 
sioned by a pencliant he had formed for a 
certain Nelly Blair, a pretty girl, a servant 
in the family, and whom he celebrated in 
more songs and odes than her name appears 
in ; the only one \\\^\y to be applied to he» 
now, being one which he himself transcribes, 
in a letter to Mr. Thomson, as one of his 
earliest effusions, and of which his ' Hand- 
some Nell,' I think, forms the burden. My 
friend describes him as being considered at 
that time as a clever fellow, but a wild 
scamp. " 

Page 12, Note 11. — The songs in ques- 
tion are respectively identified by the first 
lines of each as follows : — 

1. "It was upon a Lammas night." 

2. " Now westling winds and slaughterin* 
guns." 

3. " Behind you hills where Lugar flows." 
Page 13, Note 12. — One Richard Brown, 

who however lived until within the last few 
years, and was latterly held in general 
esteem. 

Page 13, Note 13. — On the birth of ai> 
illegitimate child. 

Page 13, Note 14. — "Tlie tw^a herds." 
Page 14, Note 15. — John Blane, at one , 
time driver of a coach between Glasgow and 
Cumnock, and now (1838) residing &t 
Kilmarnock, was for four years and a half 
farm-servant in the Burns family at 
Lochlee and Mossgiel. With Robert Burns, 
who was eight years his senior, he slept foi 
a long time in the same bed, in the stable 
loft, at Mossgiel. He reports that Burns 
had a little deal table with a drawer in it, 
wh:ch he kept constantly beside the bed, 
with a small desk on the top of it. Tiie 
best of his poems were here written during 
the hours of rest ; the table-drawer being 
the depository in which he kept them. 'Vo 
think of the Cotter's Saturday Night, the 
Lament, and the Vision, being written in 




^i^l 



LITE OF BTJRNS. 



4/53 



the poor sfflrret over a small farmer's stable ! 
He used to employ Blaiie to read the poems 
to him, immediately after their composition, 
that he miffht be able the more effectually 
to detect faults in them. When dissatisfied 
with a particular passage, he would stop the 
reading, make an alteration, and then desire 
his companion to proceed. Blane was often 
awakened by him during the night, that he 
might serve him in this capacity. It is to 
be gathered from the old man's conversation, 
that the bard of Ayr was a most rigid 
critic of his own compositions, and burned 
many with which he was displeased. 

Page 14, Note 16. — Miss Helen Maria 
Williams. 

Page 14, Note 17. — There are various 
copies of this letter in the. author's hand- 
writing ; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected, is in the book in which he had 
copied several of liis letters. This has been 
used for the press, with some omissions, and 
one slight alteration suggested by Gilbert 
Burns. 

Page 14, Note 18.— This house is on 
the right-hand side of the road from Ayr to 
Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. When the 
poet's father afterwards removed to Tarbol- 
ton parish, he sold his leasehold right in 
this house, and a few acres of land adjoining, 
to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. 
It is now a country ale-house. 

Page 15, Note 19. — Mrs. Burns, the 
mother of Robert Burns, survived to the 
advanced age of 88. She died on the 14th 
of .January, 1820. 

Page 15, Note 20 — Cluoted from a 
letter addressed by G. Burns, to Mrs. 
Dunlop. 

Page 15, Note 21. — The farm alluded to 
was Mount Oliphant in the parish of Ayr. 
The passage is quoted from a letter firom G. 
Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. 

Page 16, Note 22. — The reading from 
Titus Adronicus, was from the revolting 
passage, — Act ii. Sc. 6 

Page 17, Note 23.— Mr. Tennant, of 
Ayr, one of the few surviving early friends 
of Burns, has the following recollections 
respecting him : — " He first knew the poet, 
when attending Mr. "Murdoch's school at 
Ayr, he being then fifteen, and Burns a year 
and a half older. Burns and he were fa- 
vourite pupils of Murdoch, who used to take 
them alternately to live with him, allowing 
them a share of his bed. Mr. Murdoch 
was a well-informed and zealous teacher — a 
particularly good French scholar, insomuch 
that he at nae time taught the language in 



France. He thought his voice had some 
peculiar quality or power, adapting it in an 
uncommon degree for French pronunciation. 
To this predilection of the teacher, it ia 
probably owing that Burns acquired so 
much French, and had such a fancy for ni. 
troducing snatches of it in his letters. 
Murdoch was so anxious to advance his two 
favourite pupils, that, while they were lying 
with him, he was always taking opportu- 
nities of communicating knowledge. The 
intellectual gifts of Burns even at this time 
greatly impressed his fellow-scholar. Robert 
and Gilbert Burns were like no other young 
men. Their style of language was quite 
above that of their compeers. Robert had 
borrov.'ed great numbers of books, and ac- 
quainted himself with their contents. He 
read rapidly, but remembered all that was 
interesting or valuable in what he read. 
He had the New Testament more at C(jra- 
mand than any other youth ever known 
to Mr. Tennant, who was. altogether, 
more impressed in these his boyish days by 
the discourse of the youthful poet, than he 
afterwards was by his published verses. 
The elocution of 15urns resembled that of 
Edmund Kean — deep, thoughtful, emphatic; 
and in controversy, no man could stand 
before him." 

Page 17, Note 24. — Mr. John Murdoch 
died April 20, 1824, aged seventy-seven. 
He had published a Radical vocabulary of 
the French language, 12mo, 1783; Pro- 
nunciation and Orthography of the 
French language, 8vo. 1788 ; Diction- 
ary of Distinctions, 8vo. 1811 ; and other 
works. He was a highly amiable and 
worthy man. In his latter days, illness had 
reduced him to the brink of destitution, 
and an appeal was made to the friends and 
admirers of his illustrious pupil, in his 
behalf Some money was thus raised, and 
applied to the relief of his necessities. It a 
stated, in the obituary notice of Mr. Mur- 
doch, published in the London papers, that 
he had taught English in London to several 
distinguished foreigners ; among the rest 
to the celebrated Talleyrand, during hi» 
residence as an emigrant in England. 

Page 19, Note 25.— Both Robert and 
Gilbert speak of the total ruin of their 
father at the time of his death. "His all," 
says Robert, " went among the hell-hounda 
that prowl in the kennel of justice." it 
appears difficult to reconcile this with the 
immediately ensuing statement, that Moss- 
giel was stocked by the property and indi- 
vidual savings of the whole family. But 
the fact, we understand to he. that at th« 



(54 



NOTES TO THE 



baukniptcy of William Bnrns, his children 
had respectively considerable claims upon 
his estate, on account of their services to 
iiini on the farm, which claims were prefer- 
oble to those of the other creditors. They 
thus, with the perfect approbation of the 
law, and we rather think of justice also, 
(though some thought otherwise at the time), 
rescued a portion of his property from the 
" hell-hounds." 

Page 19, Note 26. — John Blane, already 
mcTitioned, reports that, at Lochlee, the 
wliole family, including the daughters, 
wrought at the various labours of the farm. 
The second daughter, Annabella by name, 
had a turn for poetry, but, not having been 
taught to write, was unable to commit her 
compositions to paper: few women of the 
same rank were at that time taught to write. 
The family was one which regularly went to 
church, one male and one female being left 
;it home, to take care of the house, and 
"the beasts." Annabella would contrive to 
have Blane for her companion, that he might 
write down her poems during the absence 
of the rest. She took possession of the 
manuscripts, but was obliged by the severity 
of parental discipline, to conceal her love of 
the divine art. 

Page 20, Note 27. — According to credi- 
ble aiithorities, he was in the haljit of walking 
every day to Kilmarnock, for the purpose of 
superintending the progress of his literary 
labours, through press ; and it is very 
certain that he was at this time labouring 
under the utmost privations, and subsisting 
upon the most scanty fare : — " dininy ojf a 
piece of oat cake, and two-pennyworl/i of 
ale," according to one of his biographers. 

Page 20, Note 28. — Burns, himself, in 
many of his extant letters of this date, declares 
that he was " skulking from covert to covert, 
under the terror of a jail," and that he was 
pursued to persecution by the officers, under 
proceedings intended to extort a compulsory 
provision for his twin children, by Miss Ar- 
mour, which, however, he was bent upon legi- 
timating, by marrying their mother ; whilst 
the relations of Miss A. were driving him 
from pillar to post, in the hope of effectually 
separating the lovers. 

Page 21, Note 29. — There is another 
observation of Gilbert Burns on his brother's 
narrative, in which some persons will be 
interested. It refers to where the poet 
fpf aks of his youthful friends. " My 
brotlier," says Gilbert Burns. " seems to set 
nfi'his early companions in too consequential 
ft manner. The principal acquaintance we 
Bad ia Ayr, w ^ile boys, were four sous of 



Mr. Andrew M'Culloch, a distant relatioi 
of my mother's, who kept a tea shop, and 
had made a little money in the contraliand 
trade, very common at that time. He died 
while the boys were young, and my fathei 
was nominated one of the tutors. The two 
eldest were bred shopkeepers, the third a 
surgeon, and the youngest, the only survi- 
ving one, was bred in a counting-house in 
Glasgow, where he is now a respectable 
merchant. I believe all these boys went tc 
the West Indies. Then there were two sons 
of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest a 
very worthy young man, went to the East 
Indies, where he had a commission in the 
army ; he is the person whose heart, my 
brother says, the Munny Begtim scenes could 
not corrupt. The other, by the interest of 
Lady Wallace, got an ensigncy in a regimt;nt 
raised by the Duke of Hamilton during the 
American AVar. I believe neither of them 
are now (1797) alive. We also knew the 
present Dr. Paterson of Ayr, and a younger 
brother of his, now in Jamaica, who were 
much younger than us. I had almost forgot 
to mention Dr. Charles of Ayr, who was a 
little older than my brother, and with whom 
we had a longer and closer intimacy than 
«itli any of the others, which did not, how- 
ever, continue in after life." 

Page 21, Note 30. — A Scottish term 
meaning fire. 

Page 21, Note 31. — The hoary brow. 
Page 21, Note 32. — Wishes or choosen. 
Page 21, Notes 33, 34, and 35. — An 
allusion to some airs known amongst the 
Scottish Psalmody. Reference is especially 
made to the three adopted by William 
Burns. 

Page 21, Note 36. — Supplies, adds fuel 
to. 

Page 21, Note 37.— The father of the 
family leading the family devotion. 

Page 25, Note 38. — "This business was 
first carried on here from the Isle of Man, 
and afterwards to a considerable extent 
from France, Ostend, and Gottenburgh. 
Persons engaged in it found it necessary 
to go abroad, and enter into business with 
foreign merchants ; and by dealing in tea, 
spirits, and silks, brought home to their 
families and friends the means of luxury 
and finery at the cheapest rate." — Statistical 
Account of Kirkoswatd, 1794. 

Page 28, Note 39. — The subjoined anec- 
dote may serve to throw some additional 
light upon the nature of Burns' connexions 
at the period referred to. " The poet's jMay- 
bole friend, on inspecting the volume, wa« 



UFE OF BURNS. 



451 



mortified to find the poetical epistle which 
had been addressed to him, printed with the 
name Andrew substituted for his own, and 
the motto from Blair, as was but proper, 
omitted. He said nothing at the time ; but, 
young', ambitious, and conscious of having 
done all in his humble power for friendship's 
cause, he could not forgive so marked a 
slight. He, therefore, from that time ceased 
to answer Burns's letters. TMien the poet 
was next at Maybole, he asked the cause, 
and \A'illie answered by inquiring if he could 
1 )t himself divine it. He said he thought 
he could, and adverted to the changed 
name in the poem.. Mr. Robert Aikeu, 
writer in Ayr, tuid been, he said, a useful 
friend and patron to him. He had a sou 
commeueing a commercial life in Liverpool. 
I thought, he said, that a few verses ad- 
dressed to this youth would gratify the 
father, and be accepted as a mark of my 
gratitude. But, my muse being lazy, I 
could not well make them out. After all, 
this old epistle occurred to me, and by put- 
ting his uame into it, in place of yours, I 
made it answer this purpose. Willie told 
him in reply, that he had just exchanged 
his friendship for that of ^Ir. Aiken, and 
requested that their respective letters might 
be burnt — a duty which he scrupulously 
performed on his own part. The two dis- 
putants of Kirkoswald never saw or cor- 
responded with each other again." 

Page 29, Note 40. — " Therefore are they 
before the throne of God, and serve him day 
and night in his temple : and he that sitteth 
on the throne shall dwell among them. 
They shall hunger no more, neither thirst 
any more; neither shall the sun light on 
them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which 
is in the midst of the throne shall feed 
them, and shall lead them' unto the living 
fountains of waters : and God shall wipe 
away all tears from their eyes." 

Page 29, Note 41. — "We have had several 
occasions to notice the narrowness of Burns's 
means, and the straits to which he was 
often reduced ; and the account which we 
have of the closing sceue of his father's life, 
sufficiently explains how this extremity of 
distress should have failed to be relieved by 
his relatives. To those to whom such a cir- 
cumstance, however, may appear somewhat 
extraordinary, the subjoined particulars may 
be interesting : — " It is no uncommon case 
for a small farmer, or even cotter, in Scot- 
land, to have a sou placed at some distant 
eerainary of learning, or serving an appren- 
ticesliip to some metropolitan writer or 
radeuiuau; iu which case, the youth is 



almost invariably supplied with oatmeal, tlie 
staple of the poor Scotsman's life— cheese, 
perhaps — oaten or barley bread, &c., from 
the home stores, by the intervention of the 
weekly or fortnightly carrier. The above 
passage recals to the Editor an anecdote 
which is related of a gentleman, now high in 
consideration at the Scottish bar, whose 
fathei , a poor villager in the upper ward of 
Lanaikshire, having contrived to get him 
placed at Glasgow University, supported him 
there cliietly by a weekly bag of oatmeal. 
On one occasion, the supply was stopped for 
nearly three weeks by a snow-storm. The 
young man's meal, like Burns's, was out; 
but his pride, or his having no intimate ac- 
quaintance, prevented him from borrowing. 
And this remarkable and powerful-minded 
man had all but perished, before the dissolving 
snow allowed a new stock of provisions to 
reach him." 

Page 29, Note 42.— In his letter to Dr. 
Moore, Bums gives the following account 
of the consequences of this calamity to 
himself: — "This was an unlucky atfair ; as 
we were giving a welcome carousal to the 
new year the shop took fire, and burnt to 
ashes, and / was left, like a true poet, not 
worth a sLcpence." " One who had known 
Burns at Irvine thus reported his recollec- 
tion of the poet's appearance and demeanour. 
He looked older than he was — was of a very 
dark complexion, and had a strong dark eye; 
his ordinary look, while iu company, was 
thoughtful, amounting to what might be 
called a gloomy attentiveness. When not 
interested in the conversation, he might 
sometimes be seen, for a considerable space, 
leaning down on his palm, with his elbow 
resting on his knee — perhaps the most mel- 
ancholy of all postures short of the prostra- 
tion of despair. He was in common silent 
and reserved ; but when he found a man to 
his mind, he made a point of attaching iiim- 
self to the company of that person, and 
endeavouring to bring out ins powers. 
Among women he never failed to exert him- 
self, and always shone. People remarked, 
even then, that when Robert Burns did 
speak, he always spoke to the point, and in 
general with a sententious brevity. From 
another source we learn that Burns at this 
time loved to debate theological topics 
amongst the rustic groups which met in the 
churchyard after service." 

PiiGE 30, Note 43. — Sillar was a brother 
rhymster of Burns's, and it was to him thai* 
the Epistle to Davie was addressed. Mt, 
Sillar subsequently became a wealthy magi* 
trate iu Irvine, by inheriting, very uueX' 



40 





I^^tp- 



isa 



NOTES TO THE 



pevrtedly;, a large fortune from a distant rela- 
tive. He had, however, before this, settled 
as a teacher in the same place, and lived in 
competent circumstances. He has only been 
dead a few years. 

Page 31, Note 44. — At the period at 
which Dr. Cimie wrote his biogjraphical 
account of Burns, these societies were com- 
paratively scarce, and it was worthy of some 
remark that works of this particular character 
were held in preference. The Scotch, besides, 
being an imaginative people, are, however, 
essentially a scientific nation, and in these 
days a great variety of literary material has 
become popularised amongst them. Indeed, 
" book societies and village libraries have 
greatly increased in number, and means, for- 
merly undreamt of have been taken for fur- 
nishing intellectual food to the people. It 
may, at the same time, be mentioned that no 
evil result of any kind is known to have 
•risen from the alleged predilection of the 
Scottish peasantry for books of elegant lite- 
rature. We think it likely that this predi- 
lection is greatly overstated in the text. 
One great change has, however, taken place 
in the tastes of the rural people of Scotland. 
Their book-shelves or window-soles, which 
formerly contained only a few books of 
divinity, with perhaps Blind Harry's Wallace 
and Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, or some 
specimens of secular literature, now exliibit, 
in many instances, a considerable store of 
productions in the belles lettres, and of valu- 
able books of information. The individuals 
who sell books in numbers, or small parts, 
speak strongly of the change which has taken 
place amongst them, during the last thirty 
years, from an exclusively theoolgical to a 
general taste." 

Page 35, Note 45. — In Cobbett's Maga- 
zine. 

Page 35, Note 46. — The female infant 
continued to be nursed by its mother, but 
unable to provide any better attention for 
the boy, the family entrusted him to the care 
of some good people at Mossgiel, where he 
was reared by hand, being fed upon cow'smilk. 

Page 36, Note 47. — Miss Alexander, 
who had become the purchaser of the estate 
in the scenery of which Burns delighted to 
revel. Wilhelmina Alexander was the sister 
of Mr. Claude Alexander, who has served as 
paymaster to the troops in India. 

Page 36, Note 48.— Tliis letter is pre- 
served as a great treasure at Ballochrayle. 
At the close. Burns requests, as a favour, 
the permission to include the poem which 
accompanied it in the forthcoming secoud 
edition of his woiks. 



Page 36, Note 49. — This is correct iq 
Scottish phraseology ; in strictly gianuuati- 
cal English, we should have used ther worJ 
hunr/ for hang. 

Page 36, Note 50. — These line* origi' 
nally stood thus : — 

" The lily's hue and roses' dye 

Bespoke the lass o' Ballochrayle." 

Page 37, Note 51. — The individual al- 
luded to was a modest and amiable girl, named 
Mary Campbell, whose parents resided at 
Campbelltown in Argyleshire. It can iiever 
detract from the pathos of her histoiy., to 
relate that she was a servant — we believe, 
the dairy-woman — at Coilsfield House, the 
seat of Colonel Montgomery, afterwards 
twelfth earl of Egliutou. Burns partly 
narrates the tale of his affection for this 
young woman. " After a pretty long trial,'' 
he says, "of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
tion, we met, by appointment, on the second 
Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the 
banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking 
a farewell before she should embark for the 
West Highlands, to arrange matters among 
her friends for our projected change of life 
At the close of the autumn following, she 
crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, 
where she had scarce landed when she was 
seized with a malignant fever, which hurried 
my dear girl to her grave in a few days, 
before I could even hear of her illness." 
Mr. Cromek further informs us, that this 
adieu was performed with all those simple 
and striking ceremonials, which rustic senti- 
ment has devised to prolong tender emotions 
and to impose awe. The lovers stood on 
each side of a small purling brook — they 
laved their hands in the hmpid stream — and, 
holding a Bible between them, pronounced 
their vows to be faithful to each other. 
They parted — never to meet again." It is 
proper to add," says Mr. Lockhart, " that 
Mr. Cromek's story has recently been con- 
firmed very strongly by the accidental (hs- 
covery of a Bible, presented by Burns to 
Mary Campbell, in the possession of her 
still surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon 
the boards of the first volume is inscribed, iu 
BurKs's handwriting — ' And ye shall not 
swear by my name falsely, I am the Lord.' — 
Levit. chap. xis. v. 12.' On the second 
volume — 'Thou shalt not forswear thyself, 
but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths.' 
— St. Matlh. chap. v. 33. And, on a blank 
leaf of either — ' Robert Burns, Mossgiel' — 
with his 7)i(ison-niark." The fine lyrics, 
Highland Mary, and To Mary in Heaveu 



•^ III' !ii!iiii:ii!iiiiiii:;iiiii:i 







iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiKiiiiuijiiaiiiiaii 







iiiiiiiiiiiiiilliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



451 



with thft notes attoched to ihem, tell tbfi 
remaiiuier of this sorrowful tale. 

Pa(;h 37, Note 52. — Gilbert Bums, in a 
letter addressed to the Editor [Dr. Currie], 
hns given the following account of the friends 
wliich Robert's talents procured him before 
he left Ayrsliire, or attracted the notice of 
the world : — 

"The farm of Mosssiel, at the time of onr 
cominj^ to it (Martinmas, 1783), was the pro- 
perty of the F,arl of Loudon, but was held 
in tack by ilr. Ga\in Hamilton, writer, in 
JIauchline, from whom we had our barj;ain ; 
wh^) had thus an opportunity of lu'owing, 
and showiuEj a siucere regard for my brother, 
before he knew that he was a poet. The 
poet's estiraati.^n of him, and the strong out- 
lines of his character, may be collected from 
the dedication to this gentleman. When 
the publication was begun, i\Ir. Hamilton 
entere<i very warmly into its interests, and 
prom )ted the subscription very extensively. 
Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man 
of worth and taste, of warm affections, and 
connected w-ith a most respectable circle of 
friends and relations. It is to this gentleman 
The Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. 
The poems of ray brother, which I have for- 
merly jnentioned, no sooner came into his 
hands, than they were quickly known, and 
well received in the extensive circle of !Mr. 
Aiken's friends, wWich gave them a sort of 
currency, necessary in tliis wise world, even 
for the good reception of things valuable in 
themselves. But Mr. Aiken not only ad- 
mired the poet ; as soon as he became 
aciiuainted with him, he showed the warmest 
regard for the man, and did everything in 
his power to forward his interest and re- 
specta'oility. The Epistle to a Young Friend 
was addressed to this gentleman's son, ^Ir. 
A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was 
the oldest of a young family, who were 
taught to receive my brother with respect, 
as a man of genius, and their father's friend. 

The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John 
Ballantine, Esq.. banker, in Ayr; one of those 
gentlemen to whom my brother was intro- 
duced by Mr. Aiken. He interested himself 
very warmly in my brother's concerns, and 
coi"?tantly showed the gres'test friendship 
and attachment to him. When the Kilmar- 
r.nck edition was all sold off, and a consider- 
»blc demand pointed out the propriety of 
publi>hing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, who 
kad printed the tirst, was asked if he 
nouid print the second, and take his chance 
of biiing paid from the first sale. This he 
dechned, and when this came to Mr. Ballan- 
kiue's kuowledge, he generously olTered to 



accommodate Robert with wha* money he 
might need for tha'. pnipose; but advised 
him to go to Edinburgh, as the fittest jjlace 
for publishing. When he did go to Edin- 
burgh, his friends advised him to publish 
again by sub>cription, so that he did not 
need to accept this offer. Mr. William 
Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock, was a sub- 
scriber for thirty-five copies of the Kilmar- 
nock edition. This may, perhaps, apjiear 
not deserving of notice here; but if ths 
comparative obscurity of the poet at this 
period, be taken into consideration, it appeara 
to me a greater effort of generosity than 
many things which appear more brilliant in 
my brother's future history. 

" Mr. Robert ^luir, merchant in Kilmar- 
nock, was one of those friends Robert's 
poetry had procured him, and one who was 
dear to his heart. This gentleman had no 
very great fortune, or long line of diguilied 
ancestry ; but what Robert says of Caiitain 
Jlatthew Henderson, might be said ot^ him 
with great propriety, that he held the patent 
of his honours immecUatehj from Almir/hfi/ 
God. Nature had, indeed, marked him a 
gentleman in the most legible characters. 
He died while yet a young man, soon after 
the publication of my brother's first l']din- 
burgli edition. Sir William Cunningham of 
Robertland, paid a very flattering attention, 
and showed a good deal of friendship for tiie 
poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as 
well as after, Robert seemed pecnlinrly 
pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship 
and conversation. 

" But of all the friendships which Robert 
acquired in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none 
seemed more agreeable to him than that of 
Mrs. Uunlop of Dunlop ; nor any which has 
been more uniformly and constantly exerted 
in behalf of him and his family, of which, 
were it proper, I could give many instances. 
Robert was on the point of setting out for 
Edinburgh before Mrs. Dunlop had lieanl of 
him. About the time of my brother's )iiib- 
lisliing in Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted 
with a long and severe illness, which had 
reduced her mind to the most disircssiiig 
state of depression. In this situation, a copy 
of the printed poems was laid on her table 
by a friend; and, happening to open on 
The Cotter's Saturday Night, she read it 
over with the greatest pleasure and surprise ; 
the poet's description of the simple cottagers 
operating on her mind like the cliarm of a 
Tjowerful exorcist, expelling the demon enntU 
md restoring her to her wonted inward har- 
rioiiy and satisfaction. Mrs. Dunlop sent 
»ff a perso^ express to Mossgiel, d'.stavt 




4fi8 



NOTES TO TllE 



fifteen or sixteen mileB, with a very obliging 
letter to my brother, desiring hira to send 
her lialf a dozen copies of his poems, if he 
had them to spare, and begging he would do 
her the pleasure of calling at IJunlop House 
as soon as convenient. This was the begin- 
ning of a correspondence which ended only 
with the poet's lile. The last use he made 
of his pen. was writing a short letter to this 
lady a fi- , days before his death. 

Colonel Fullarton, who afterwards paid a 
very particular attention to the poet, was not 
in the country at the time of his first com- 
mencing author. At this distance of time, 
and in the hurry of a wet day, snatched from 
laborious occupations, I may have forgot 
Borne persons who ought to have been men- 
tioned on this occasion ; for which, if it 
come to my knowledge, I shall be heartily 
sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Duulop was of 
particular value to Burns. This lady, 
daugliter and eole heiress to Sir Thomas 
A\ ailace of Craigie, and lineal descendant of 
the illustrious Wallace, the first of Scottish 
■warriors, possesses the qualities of mind 
inited to her high lineage. Preserving, in 
the decline of life, the generous affections of 
youth, her admiration of the poet was soon 
actoinpanied by a sincere friendship for the 
man, which pursued him in after-life through 
good and evil report — in poverty, in sickness, 
and in sorrow — and which is continued to 
his infant family, now deprived of their 
parent. [Mrs. Dunlop was the lineal de- 
scendant, not of Sir 'William Wallace, but of 
hi's father's elder brother. This amiable and 
enlightened person died May 24, 1815, 
ftt an advanced age ] 

Page 38, Note 53. — "Thomas Blacklock, 
r.D. (horn at Annan, Nov. 10, 1721, died at 
Ediubai-gh, July 7, 1791), though blind 
from the age of six months, acquired the 
education suitable for the clerical profession, 
and wrote poetry considerably above medi- 
ocrity. It was a fortunate circumstance that 
the person whom Dr. Laurie applied to, 
merely because he was the only one of his 
literary acquaintances with whom he chose 
to use that freedom, happened also to be the 
person best qualified to render the applica- 
tion successful. Dr. Blacklock was an en- 
thusiast in his admiration of an art which he 
had practised himself with applause. He 
felt the claims of a poet with a paternal 
sympathy, and he had in his constitution a 
tenderness and sensibility that would have 
engaged his beneficence for a youth in the 
circumstances of Burns, even though he had 
not been iudebi ed to him, for the deUght 



which he received from his works ; for if tlic 
young men were enumerated whom he dre* 
from obscurity, and enabled by education to 
advance themselves in life, the catalogue 
would naturally excite surprise. * * * He 
was not of a disposition to discourage wiife 
feeble praise, and to shift off the trouble o/ 
future patronage, by bidding him relinquisl' 
poetry, and mind his plough." — Professor 
Walkur. 

The following is the letter of Dr. Black- 
lock to Dr. Laurie, by which the poet was 
prevented from going to Jamaica, and had 
his steps turned towards Edinburgh : — 

"I ought to have acknowledged your 
favour long ago, not only as a testimony of 
your kind remembrance, but as it gave me 
an opportunity of sharing one of the finest, 
and perhaps, one of the most genuine enter- 
tainments of which the human mind is 
susceptible. A number of avocations retarded 
my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
howe\ er, I have finished that pleasing perusal. 
JIany iustances have I seen of Nature's 
force or beneficence exerted under numerou* 
and formidable disadvantages ; but none 
equal to thai with which you have been kind 
enough to present me. There is a pathos 
and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of 
wit and humour in those of a more festive 
turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved ; and I think I 
shall never open the book without feeling 
my astonishment renewed and increased. It 
was my wish to have expressed my approba- 
tion in verse; but whether from declining 
life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it 
is at present out of my power to accomplish 
that intention. 

" ]\Ir Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
university, had formerly read me three of the 
poems, and I had desired him to get my 
name inserted among the subscribers ; but 
whether this was done or not, I never could 
learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. 
Blair, but will take care to have the poems 
communicated to him by the intervention of 
some mutual friend. It has been told me 
by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per- 
formances, and who sought a copy with 
diligence and ardour, that the whole impres- 
sion is already exhausted. It were, therefore, 
much to be wished, for the sake of the young 
man, that a second edition, more numerous 
than the former, could immediately be 
printed; as it ajipears certain that its in- 
trinsic merit, and the exertion of the 
author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
versal circulation than anything of the kind 
which has been pubhshed in mx memory 



^' 



:i:iiiii:iiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiii;iiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiii!iiiiiiNin 




' iiiitiniiniiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiKiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiflililiilliliiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



451 



Pagb 38, Note 54. — Mr. Dakiel was 
employed by the Earl of Glencairn, in the 
rapacity of steward to his estates, and was 
located in Ayrshire, in the estate called 
Finlayston, belongnig to that nobleman. 

Page 38, Note 55. — Mr. Cunningham, 
in his account of this period, in the poet's 
career, has^iven the following portraiture of 
him : — " After his return to Ediu'iurgh, he 
seemed for some days, as in earlif-*- life, un- 
fitted with an aim, and wandered about, 
looking down from Arthur's seat surveying 
the palace, gazing at the castle, or contem- 
plating the windows of the bookseller's 
shops, wherein he saw all works save the 
poems of the ploughman of Ayrshire. He 
picked his way to the solitary tomb of Fer- 
gusson, and kissed the sod as he knelt down ; 
he sought out the house of Allan Ramsay, 
and on entering it, took off his hat ; and 
when, subsequently, he was introduced to 
Creech, the bibliopole remembered that he 
had before heard of his inquiring whether 
this had been the shop of the author of the 
Gentle Shepherd. 

Page 38, Note 56. — The following are 
the lines in question : — 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
8ae far I sprackled up the brae^ 

1 dinner'd wi' a lord. 

I've been at drunken writer's feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou'd 'mang gadly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : — 
I've even joined the honour'd jorum. 
When mighty squireships of the quorum. 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord ! stand out ray shin ! 
A Lord ! a Peer ! a true Earl's son 1 

Up higher yet my bonnet I 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa^ 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and stammer'd. 
When goavan, as if led wi' braiiks. 
And stunipin' on his ploughman shanks. 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I gliding shelter'd in a nook. 
And at his Lordship steal' t a look. 

Like some portentous omen : 
Except good sense and social glee, 
AJid (v'hat surprised mej modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 



I watch'd the sjmptoms o' the great. 

The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arr.i- . ic assuming: 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 
Mair than an honest ploughnum. 

Then from his Lordship I shall leam» 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble youthful Dab»» 

For he but meets a brother. 

The nobleman alluded to in these lines, was, aa 
has been noticed, Basil Lord Daer, the eldest 
son and heir of Dunbar Earl of Selkirk. 
Imbued with the equalising notions of the 
French Revolution, from the seat of which 
he had but very recently returned, he was 
free from all the absurd affectation of sim- 
plicity and hypocritical pretence of equaUty, 
and was as truly simple in his manners and 
appearance, as genuinely courteous to hig 
inferiors in rank, and as unostentatiously 
benevolent, as his heart was sound, and his 
judgment untainted and unbiassed. His 
early death, on the 5th of November, 1794, 
was sincerely lamented by the many of the 
humble, yet meritorious associates whom he 
had rescued from undeserved obscurity. 
Lord Daer was only 31 years of age when 
he died. 

Page 39, Note 57. — ^Dr. Currie had seta 
and conversed with Burns. 

Page — , Note 58. — Refer to note 59, 
the number 58 having been omitted in th« 
corrections. 

Page 41, Note 59. — There is some want of 
preciseness about this date. Gilbert Burng 
seems to have been under the impression 
that the real date should have been rendered 
1789-90, whilst others amongst the biogra- 
phers, &c., who furnish us with material r^ 
latirg to the poet, prefer to render the date 
as 1787-88. I believe, from other documents, 
that the date is correctly rendered in the text, 
and from some scraps of memoranda derived 
originally from Dr. Mackenzie through Mr. 
I Bland, )r should say that the matter waa 
beyond a doubt. — [Ed.] 

Page 41, Note 60. — The readier is re- 
ferred from this quotation to the '" General 
Correspondence of Burns" in the foregoing 
part of this volume, under the date of Feb. 
14, 1791. It will be seen that the context 
furnished by other letters of an approximata 
date, throw much light on tins period in 
his life. 

Page 41, Note 61. — The recollectiong 
of Mr. John RioHraond writei ii^ Maiicb 



40* 



(60 



NOTES TO THE 



line, respecting Burns's arrival, and the 
earlier period of his residence, in Edinbnrgh, 
are curious. Mr. Richmond, who had been 
broui;ht up in tlie office of a country writer, 
and was now perfecting his studies in that 
of a metropohtan practitioner, occupied a 
room in the house of a Mrs. Carfrae, in 
Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, at the rent of 
three shillings a-week. His circumstances 
as a youth just entering the world made 
him willing to share his apartment and bed 
with 'any agreeable companion, who might 
be disposed to take part in the expense. 
These terras suited his old Ma\ichline ac- 
qnahitance. Burns, who accordingly lived 
with him in Mrs. Carfrae's from his arrival 
in November till his leaving town in May, 
on his southern excursions. JMr. Richmond 
mentions that the jioet was so knocked up 
by his walk from Jlauchline to Edinburgh, 
that he could not leave his room for the 
next two days. During the whole time of 
his residence there, his habits were tempe- 
rate and regular. Much of his time was 
necessarily occupied in preparing his poems 
for the press — a task in which, as far as 
transcription was concerned, Mr. Richmond 
aided him, when not engaged in his own 
office duties. Burns, though frequently 
invited out into company, usually returned 
at good hours, and went soberly to bed, 
where he would prevail upon his companion, 
by little bribes, to read to him till he fell 
asleep. Mr. Lockhart draws an unfavour- 
able inference from his afterwards removing 
to the house of his friend Nicol ; but for 
this removal Mr. RichuionJ supplies a 
reason which exculpates the bard. During 
Burns's absence in the south and at Ma\ich- 
line, Mr. Richmond took in another fellow- 
lodger ; 80 that, when the poet came back, 
and applied for re-admission to Mrs. 
Carfrae's humble menage, he found his 
place filled up, and wan compelled to go 
elsewhere. 

Tlie exterior of Burns for some time after 
his arrival in Eduiburgh, was little superior 
to that of his rustic compeers. " What a 
clou-hopper ! " was the descriptive exclama- 
tion of a lady, to whom he was abruptly 
pointed out one day in the Lawnmarket. In 
the course of a few weeks he got into com- 
paratively fashionable attire — a blue coat 
with metal buttons, a yellow and blue 
stripped vest (being the livery of Mr. Fox), 
a pail of buckskins, so tight that he seemed 
to have grown into them, and top-boots, 
meeting the buckskins under the knee. 
His neckcloth of white cambric, was neatly 
Brran^'ed, and his wl ole appearance was 



clean and respectable, though the taste ii 
which he was dressed was still obviouslj' « 
rustic taste. 

Tl\ough his habits during the winter o) 
1786 7 were, upon the whole, good, he was 
not altogether exempt from the baccha- 
nalianism which at this period reigned in 
Edinbnrgh. Mr. AVilliam Nicol of the 
High School, and Mr. John Gray, city-clerk, 
were amongst his most intimate convivial 
friends. Nicol lived in the top of a house 
over what is called Bucdeucli Pend, in tlie 
lowest floor of which there was a tavern, 
kept by a certain Lucky Pringle, having a 
back entry from the -pend, through which 
visitors could be admitted, unwotted of by a 
censorious world. There Burns was jnnch 
with Nicol, both before and after his taking 
up his abode in that gentleman's hou<e. 
He also attended pretty frequently the 
meetings of the Crochallan Fencihles, at their 
howff in the Anchor Close; .i.nd of Johnnie 
Bowie's tavern, in Libberton's Wynd, he 
was a frequei'.t visitor. Mr. Alexander 
Cunningham, jeweller, and Mr. Robert 
Cleghorn, farmer at Saughton Mills, may be 
said to complete the list of Rurns's convivial 
acquaintance in Edinburgh. The intimacy 
he formed with Mr. Robert Ainslie, then a 
young writer's apprentice, appears to have 
been of a different character. 

Page 41, Note 62. — Mr. Dalrymple ol 
Oraugeiield, and the Honourable Henry 
Erskine, may be mentioned as individuals 
who exerted themselves in behalf of Burns, 
immediately after his arrival in Edinburgh 
Dr. Adam Fergasson, author of the History 
of the Roman Republic, may also be added 
to Dr. Currie's hst of his literary and 
philosophical patrons. At the house of the 
latter gentleman. Sir Walter Scott met with 
Burns, of whom he has given his recollec- 
tions in the following letter to Sir. 
Lockhart : — 

" As for Burns, I may truly say, llr- 
giUum. vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 
17S6-7, when he came first to Edinbun;h, 
but had sense and feeling enough to he 
much interested in his poetry, and would 
have given the world to know him ; but I 
had very little acquaintance with any literary 
people, and still less with the gentry of the 
west coimtry, the two sets whom he most 
frequented. Mr. T. Grierson was at that 
time a clerk of my father's. He knew 
Burns, and promised to ask him to his 
lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity 
to keep his word ; otherwise 1 might have 
seen more of this distinguished man. As it 
was. I saw b\m one ''ay at the late vene 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



461 



rable Professor FergtiSson's, where there were 
several geutlemenk, of literary reputation, 
Among whom I remember the celebrated 
Mr. i)ugald Stewart. Of course we youug- 
sters sat silent, looked and listened. The 
only thing I remember which was remark- 
able in Burns's manner, was the effect 
produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, 
representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, 
ais dog sitting in misery on one side 
— on the other, his widow, with a chdd ir 
her arms, These lines were written be- 
neath : — 

' Cold on Canadian hills, or Mmden's plain. 
Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — 
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew. 
The big drops mingling with the milk he 

drew, 
txave the sad presage of his future years. 
The child of misery baptised in tears.' 

Burns seemed much affected by the print, or 
rather the ideas which it suggested to his 
mind. He actually shed tears. He asked 
whose th3 lines were, and it chanced that 
nobody but myself remembered that they 
occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, 
called by the unpromising title of 'The 
Justice of Peace.' I whispered my informa- 
tion to a friend present, who mentioned it to 
Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a 
word, which, though in mere civility, I then 
received, and still recollect, with great plea- 
sure. His person was strong and robust ; 
his manners rustic, not clownish ; a sort of 
dignitied plainness and simplicity, which 
received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's 
knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's 
picture ; but to me it conveys the idea that 
they are diminished, as if seen in perspective 
I think his countenance was more massive 
than it looks in any of the portraits. I would 
have taken the poet, had I not known what 
he was, for a very sagacious country farmer 
of tlie old Scotch school ; that is, none of 
your modern agriculturists, who keep 
labourers for their drudgery, but the douce 
fjuidman who held his own plough. There 
was a strong exprsssion of sen-se and shrewd- 
ness in all his liueaments; the eye alone, I 
think, indicated the poetical character and 
temperament. It was large, and of a cast, 
which glowed (I say literally glowed) when 
he spoke with feeling or interest. I never 
saw such another eye in a human head, 
though I have seen the most distinguished 
men of my time. His conversation expressed 
perfect self-confidence, without the slightest 
prestuuptioa. A.mong the men who were 



the most learned of their time and country, 
he expressed himself with perfect firmness, 
but without the least intrusive forwardness; 
and when he differed in opinion, he did not 
hesitate to express it firmly, yet, at the same 
time, with modesty. I do not remember 
any part of his conversation distinctly enough 
to quote it ; nor did I ever see him again, 
except in the street, where he did not recog- 
nise me, as I could not expect he should 
He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but 
(considering what literary ■emoluments have 
been raised since his day) the efforts made 
for his relief were extremely trifling. I 
remember, on this occasion I mention, I 
thought Burns's acquaintance with English 
poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
having twenty times the abilities of Allan 
Ramsay and of Fergusson, he talked of them 
with too much humility as his models : there 
was, doubtless, national predilection in his 
estimate. This is all I can tell you about 
Burns. I have only to add, that his dress 
corresponded with his manner. He was like 
a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the 
laird. I do not speak in malum partem, 
when I say I never saw a man in company 
with his superiors in station and information, 
more perfectly free from either the reality or 
the affectation of embarrassment. I was 
told, but did not observe it, that his address 
to females was extremely deferential, and 
always with a turn either to the pathetic or 
humorous, which engaged their attention 
particularly. I have heard the late Duchess 
of Gordon remark this. I do not know any- 
thing I can add to these recollections of forty 
years since." 

Page 41, Note 63. — Jane Duchess of 
Gordon, so remarkable in her time, was one 
amongst the most striking personages of his 
acquaintance. 

Page 42, Note 64. — It was by the Earl 
of Glencairn, or through his instrumentality, 
that Mr. W. Creech, the bookseller, was 
introduced to Burns. Mi Creech had 
travelled on the continent, ia the character 
of tutor and companion to the young noble- 
man, and the latter had in view the produc- 
tion of a new edition of Burns's works when 
he effected the introduction. The Earl did 
not long survive. He died in the prime of 
life (at the age of 42 years), on the 30th of 
January, 1791, at Falmouth. 

Page 44, Note 65. — The second edition 
of the poems came out in April, 1787 — a 
handsome octavo, price five shillings to sub- 
scribers, and one shilhng more to othersi 
Above 2,800 copies had been bespoke by 
rather more than 1,500 subscribers ; tbe 



462 



NOTES TO THE 



Caled Jiiian Hunt taki ig 100 copies, Creech 
500, the Earl of Enlinton 42, the Duchess 
of Gordon, 21, the Earl of Glencairu and his 
Countess 24, while many other individuals 
iubscribed for numbers ranging between two 
and twelve. The number of names of nobility 
and gentry is very surprising, the rest being 
chiefly persons in t'ae middle walks of life, 
from all districts, however, of Scotland. The 
list has now some historical value, as a 
chronicle of the society of the day. 

The new edition of his poems was embel- 
lished by a portrait of himself, engraved by 
Beugo, from a painting by Alexander Na- 
imyth. The engraver, who, to his honour 
be it said, did his work gratuitously, improved 
upon tlie original portrait by a few sittings 
from the bard ; and his production is allowed 
to be the most faithful Ukeness of Burns in 
existence. 

Page 45, Note 66. — After seeing this 
remark in print. Dr. Somerville never punned 
more. He was the author of two substan- 
tial works on the history of England between 
the Restoration and the accession of the 
Brunswick dynasty. He died. May 16, 1830, 
at the age of ninety years, sixty-four of 
which had been passed in the clerical pro- 
fession. A son of Dr. Somerville is husband 
to a lady distinguished in the scientific world. 

Page 46, Note 67. — "Burns returned to 
Mauchline on the 8th of June. It is pleasing 
to imagine the delight with which he must 
have been received by his family after an 
absence of six months, in which his fortunes 
and prospects had undergone so wonderful a 
change. He left them comparatively un- 
known, his tenderest feelings torn and 
wounded by the conduct of the Armours, 
and in such a wretched state of utter indi- 
gence, as to be compelled to lurk about from 
hiding-place to hiding-place to escape the 
officers, whose pursuit was unabated, and on 
account of a very inconsiderable claim against 
him. He returned ; his poetical fame esta- 
blished ; the whole country ringing with his 
praises, from a capital in which he was known 
to have formed the wonder and delight of 
the polite and learned ; if not rich, yet with 
more money already than any of his kindred 
had ever hoped to see him possess, and with 
prospects of future patronage and permanent 
^evation in the scale of society, which might 
have dazzled steadier eyes than those of ma- 
ternal and fraternal atfection. The prophet 
had at last honour in his own country, but 
the haughty spirit which had preserved its 
balance at Edinburgh was not hkely to lose 
it at Mauclihne ; and we have him writing 
'•• "audd clay bigtji'," oe the 18th of July, 



in terms as stlongly expressive at any that 
ever emanated from his pen; ol that jealous 
pride which formed the groundwork of hia 
character, the dark suspiciousness of fortune 
which the subsequent course of his history too 
well justified ; that nervous intolerance of 
condescension, and consummate scorn of 
meanness, which attended and characterised 
him through life, and made the study of his 
species, for which nature had endowed him 
with such peculiar qualifications, the source 
of more pain than was ever counterbalanced 
by the requisite capacity for enjoyment with 
which he was also endowed. There are few 
of his letters in which more of the dark 
abodes and secret lurking places of his spiri; 
are made manifest: — "I never," says he 
"my friend, dreamt that mankind were capa- 
ble of anything very lofty or generous ; but 
the statehness of the patricians of Edin- 
burgh, and tlie servility of my own plebeian 
brethren (who, perhaps, formerly eyed ma 
askance), since I returned home, have almost 
put me out of conceit altogether of my 
species. I have bought a pocket-Milton, 
which I carry continually about me, in order 
to study the sentiments, the dauntless mag- 
nanimity, the intrepid, unyielding independ- 
ence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance 
of hardship in that great personage, Satan. 
The many ties of acquaintance or friendship 
I have, or think I have in life, I have felt 
along the lines, and, damn them ; they are 
almost all of them of such frail texture, that 
I am sure they would not stand the breath 
of the least adverse breeze of fortune." — • 

LOCKHART. 

Page 46, Note 68. — This person was 
Mr. James Smith, a former resident «f 
Mauchline, but who, at the period in que* 
tion, had removed to Linlithgow. 

Page 46, Note 69. — All three of these 
are the titles of popular Scottish songs. 
They were all collated with the assistance of 
Burns, and published in the shape of a 
monthly periodical. Burns used to delight 
in reverting to the praise of l^ullocligorum, 
as a most genuine specimen of Scottish 
muistrelsy; and this song had been attributed 
to various authors, but was the work of the 
Rev. Mr. Skinner. 

Page 47, Note 70. — Here would be sutH- 
cieut evidence that up to this time Burns 
was legally, and to all intents and purposes 
an unmarried man, although much against 
hi? own inclination, and his repeated entrea- 
tift ^ to the inexorable Armours. The penance 
to vhich he had submitted, of itself entitled 
him to a certificate of single blessedness ; 
which, indeed, was offered by the officiating 



LIFE OF BURXS. 



4oa 



minister. But hciC iave we in a letter ad- 
dressed to Mr. Gavm Hamilton, and bearing 
date from Edinburgh, January 7th, 1787, 
some additional and conclusive evideuce ou 
the subject. 

"To tell the truth," says Bums, "amongst 
friends, I feel a miserable blank in my heart 
with the want of her (that is Jean Armour), 
and I don't think I shall ever meet with so 
dplif^ious au armful again. She has her 
faults ; but so have you and I, and so has 
everybody else. 

' Their tricks and craft have put me daft:^ 
They've taen me in and a' that ; 
But clear the decks, and here's the aex, 
I loe the jads for a' that ! 
For a' that and a' that. 
And twice as muckle's a' that.' 
\_Part wanting."] 

''I have met," he proceeds, with a very 
prettv lass, a Lothian farmer's daughter, 
whom I have almost persuaded to accompany 
me to the west country, should I ever return 
to settle there. By the bye, a Lothian /ar- 
mer is about an Ayrshire squire of tlie lower 
kind ; and I had a most exquisite ride from 
Leith to her house yesternight, in a hackney 
coach, with her brother and two sisters, and 
brother's wife. We had dined altogetlier at 
a common friend's house in Leith, and drank, 
danced, and sang, till late enougli. The 
night was dark, the claret had been good, 

and I thirsty ." Hence, at all events, 

it is not only evident that Burns considered 
himself free, but that he did so much against 
his own mclinatiou. The supposition that 
the Armours could, according to Scotch law, 
which recognised a promise as an actual 
marriage, have enforced tlie legal observation 
of all the duties incumbent upon a husband, 
is completely refuted by the performance of 
the public penance at their own instance, 
and by which all contract between the parties 
was as let/ally annulled, and by the persecu- 
tion which Jean Armour's friends instituted 
against Burns, to render the alienation irre- 
vocable. At any rate, at this period there 
there was a tacit consent of all parties that 
either or both should "be considered free. 

Page 47, Note 71. — Dr. Adair has been 
dead many years. 

Page 47, Note 72. — A reference to 
Burns's own account of his wanderiusrs, 
which may be gathered froM the letters of 
thi3 period, will serve to explain the matter 
more fully. The Jacobitism of Burns was 
the offspring of pure national pride and 
national tradition. The Stuarts were Scots, 
Hnd Scots who, in the earlier days of their 



dynasty, had reflected some glory upor Iba 
land of their birth, and contributed soma 
share to her songs, above all. Their degene- 
racy was, by the way ; — the degradation of 
more recent Stuarts could not obliterate tha 
charm which the patriotic enthusiasm wa« 
apt to fling about their very weaknesses. It 
is, however, well known that the same senti- 
ment of opposition which fed upon the name 
of Stuart, in Biurns, gradually verged to the 
greater extreme of republicanism, as this 
charm faded before his imagination. The 
following remarks, quoted as they are from 
the memoranda of a former editor, will serve 
to furnish some additional elucidation. "It 
was probably at this time that certain ob- 
noxious stanzas of notoriety were written on 
a pane of glass in the apartment occupied 
by the poet <iud his friend : — 

'Here Stuarts once in triumph reigned. 
And laws for Scotia's weal ordained ; 
But now unroofed their palace stauds, 
Tlieir sceptre's swayed by other hands. 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills the throne— 
An idiot race, to honour lost : 
Who know them best, despise them most.' 

These lines have usually been attributed to 
Burns, notwithstanding au obvious want of 
that peculiar concentration and emphasis 
which be gave to all his efifusioiis. A writer 
in the Paisley Jlagazine, December, ISJS, 
gives the following more satisfactory ac^ 
count of them, involving circumstances 
which reflect the brightest lustre on the 
character of the Ayrshire poet : — ' They 
were not,' says this writer, ' the composi- 
tion of Burns, but of his friend Xicol. This 
we state,' he continues, ' from the testimony 
of those who themselves knew the fact as it 
truly stood, and who were well acquainted 
with the high-wrought feelings of honour 
and friendship which induced Burns to re- 
main silent under the obloquy which their 
athliatlon entailed upon him. * * * The in- 
dividual whose attention they first attracted 
was a clerk in the employment of the CanoD 
Iron Company, then travelling through the 
country collecting accounts, or receiving 
orders, who liapjiened to arrive immediately 
after the depart"re of the poet and his 
friend. * » • On inquiry he learned that 
the last occupant of the apartment was the 
far-famed Burns, and on this discovery 
he immediately transferred a copy of them 
to his memorandum-book of orders, made 
every person as wise as himself on the sub- 
ject, and penned an answer to them, which, 
with the lines themselves, soon spread 



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(C4 



NOTES TO THE 



ovor tlie ("ountry, and found a place in 
every periodical of the day. To this poetic 
CPtic of the Carron Works do we owe the 
first hint of Burns being the author of this 
tavern effusion. They who saw the writing 
on the glass know that it was not the hand- 
writing of the poet ; but this critic, who 
knew neither his autograph nor his person, 
chose to consider it as such, and so an- 
nounced it to the world. On his return to 
Btirling, Burns was both irritated and 
grieved to find that this idle and mischiev- 
ous tale had been so widely spread and so 
generally believed. The reason of the cold 
and constrained reception he met with from 
some distinguished friends, which at the time 
he could not occount for, was now explained, 
and lie felt in all its bitterness the misery 
of being innocently blamed with a thing ( 
which he despised as unwortliy of his head 
and heart. To disavow the authorship was 
to draw down popular iniii^nation on the 
lead of Nicol — a storm which would have 
anihilated him. Rather than ruin the 
interests of tliat friend, he generously and 
magnanimously, or, as some less fervent 
mind may think, fooUshly, devoted him- 
self to unmerited obloquy, by remaining 
silent, and sutl'ering the story to circulate 
uncontradicted. Tlie friend who was with 
Burns when he indignantly smashed the 
obnoxious pane with the butt end of his 
whip, and who was perfectly aware of tlie 
whole circumstances as they really stood, 
long and earnestly pleaded with him to con- 
tradict the story that had got wind, and 
injured him so much in public estimation. 
* • * It was with a smile of peculiar 
melancholy that Burns made this noble and 

characteristic reply. ' 1 know, , 1 am 

not the author ; but I'll be damned ere I 
betray the author. It would ruin him — he 
is my friend.' It is unnecessary to add, 
that to this resolution he ever after remained 
firm. " 

Page 47, Note 73.— The Mrs. Hamilton 
here alluded to, was the mother of Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, the constant 
correspondent of Burns. 

Page 48, Note 74. — ^Irs. Bruce was 
somewhat mistaken about her family dignity; 
as the common ancestor of all the Bruces of 
Stirlingshire, Clackmannanshire, and Fife, is 
only known to have been a relatiun of Uavid 
n., and has never been supposed to stand 
higher in genealogy thanasadesicendant of a 
younger brother of the father of K iiig Robert. 
The main line of the Clackiuaiinan family, the 
head of the name in Scot land, became extinct i 
IB the person of Henry Bruce, the husband ' 



of this old lady, and is now represented by 
the Earl of Elgin, in whose house of Broom- 
hall the sword and helmet of the heroic king 
are yet preserved. jMrs. Katherine Bruce, 
daughter of Mr. Bruce of Newton, and 
widow of Henry Bruce of Clackmannan, died 
November 4, 1791, at the age of ninety-five. 
There is an interesting portrait of her, taken 
in 1777, in the possession of Mr. R. Scott 
Moncrieff, of Edinburgh. 

Page 48, Note 75.— The bard Bruoe 
was no longer living at this period : he died 
a few years before at an early age. 

Page 4S, Note 76. — To Dr. Currie alone 
we are indebted for this contribution ; it i* 
extracted from a letter addressed to himself 
by Dr. Adair. 

Page 49, Note 77. — This reasoning 
might be extended, with some modification, 
to objects of sight of every kind. To have 
formed beforehand a distinct picture in the 
mind, of any interesting person or thing, 
generally lessens the pleasure of the first 
meeting with them. Though this picture be 
not supeiior, or even equal to the reality, 
still it can never be expected to be an exact 
resemblance; and the disappointment felt at 
finding the object something different from 
what was expected, interrupts and diiuinishe* 
the emotions that would otherwise be pro- 
duced. In such cases, the second or third 
interview gives more pleasure than the first. 
— See the Elements of the Philosophy of the 
Iliunun Mind, by Mr. Stewart, p. 484. Such 
publications as The Guide to the Ijikes, 
wlit'i-e every scene is described in the most 
minute manner, and sometimes with consi- 
derable exaggeration of language, are iu this 
point of view objectionable. 

Page 49, Note 78. — This young la<ly, 
subsequently married to Dr. Adair, was Miss 
Katherine Hamilton, sister to the poet'a 
intimate friend, Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 

P.\GE 49, Note 79. — Amongst others, in 
the lines entitled "Lines on scaring some 
water-fowl in Loch Turit ; " of the date of 
these, however, there is some doubt, for 
there is more reason to attribute them to a 
previous visit to the Highlands. If this 
conjecture be correct, they were probably 
written on the occasion of the poet's visit to 
Ochtertyre, in Perthshire, (as it is in the im- 
mediate vicinity of this place that Ijocli. 
Turit IS situated), in the month of June 
Allusions and descriptions of a similar nature 
are to be found in the "lines written with a 
pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers," and 
in those " \Vritten at an Inn at Keumore." 

Page 50, Note 80. — Such an account 
would have beec most applicable, as regardi 




Q:r. 



iiiii!ii[|ii!iiiiiiii;>iii!aiiiii!iiiiiiiii:;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiii 




LEFE OF BTJRNS. 



48a 



the first iiitTodMttion of the poet into liigli 
iocit'y. But in tlie ^finter which preceded 
Ihis period, he liad lieen the lion of the best 
iociety of Edinburffh. 

Page 50, Note 81. — The humble petition 
of Biiiar Water. 

Pace 50, Note 82. — This account is 
derived from a letter addressed by Mr. 
Walker to Mr. Cunningham ; and it is to 
the latter to whom we are indebted for this, 
as well as for so many other interesting par- 
ticulars relating to Burns, The letter in 
question is dated from Perth, October 24th, 
1797. 

Paoe 50, Note 8.3. — This gentleman, as 
19 will known, held an important olHce in 
the administration of William Pitt, and was 
sub^secpiently raised to the peerage by the 
title of Lord Melville. At this time he was 
better known as the Rt. Hon. Henry Dundas. 

Pagu 51, Note 84. — Such is the pur- 
port of a letter addressed to Ur. Currie, by 
l)r. Conpcr of Focahbers ; and it is to the 
former that we are immediately indebted for 
this contribution. 

Page 51, Note 85. — ^The measure in 
which these lines are composed, was intended 
to accomodate them to Burns' very favourite 
Scotch air of Morarj. 

Page 51, Note 86. — The subjoined par- 
ticulars, published by Mr. Lockhart, may be 
of some interest in respect of this period of 
our Biography. "At this time the publica- 
tion called Johnson's Musical Museum was 
conducted at Edinburgh, and the Editor 
appears to have early prevailed upon Burns to 
atf'ird him his assistance in the arrangement 
of his material." [This, indeed, is evident 
froin the letters addressed by Burns himself 
to his different friends, which will be found 
amongst his correspondence of this period, 
and in which he mentions the earnest interest 
wnieh he was taking in the publication, and 
the request of its editor that he should 
do so.] " 'J'hough Green (/row the Rnshes O ! 
IS Ihe only song which is entirely his (Burns), 
and which appears in the first volume, pub- 
li lied in 1787, many of the old ballads 
nieluded in that volume bear traces of his 
hand." [Had Mr. Lockhart exan uied a 
little more closely, or, had he possessed the 
material which has shice fallen into our 
hands, he would have discovered that there 
are, at least, three more of which no earthly 
trace could be found, save in the handiwork 
of the Ayrshire Bard; and that the majority, 
even the work of his favourite Skinner, had 
received addition-s and touches from his hand. 
At any rate, it was a very pardonable mis- 
■epreseutatiou ; tor, it must be confessed, 

B H 



that the collection is, perhaps, onh the mor« 
meritorious for his contributions.] " But in 
the second voli me," continues Mr. Lockhart, 
"which appeared in March 178S, we find 
no fewer than five songs by Burns : — tw'o 
that have been already mentioned (Clarhida_ 
and How 'pleasant the Banks of the cleai 
vnndimj Devon), and three far better than 
them, namely, Theniel Menzie's Bonny 
Mary, that grand lyric which runs as 
follows : — 

Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong. 

The wretch's destiny ; — 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

Oa yonder gallows' tree, — 

both of which performances bespeak the 
recent impressions of his highland visit, — 
and, lastly, IVldstle, (i:ul I will come to thee, 
my lad. Burns had been, from his youth 
upwards, an enthusiastic lover of tiie old 
miiu'^trelsy and music of his country ; but 
he now studied both subjects with far better 
opportunities and apiiliaiices than he could 
have commanded previously ; and it is from 
this time that we may date his ambition to 
transmit his own poetry to posterity, in 
eternal association with those exquisite airs, 
which had hitherto, in far too many in- 
stances, been coupled to verses which did 
not deserve to be immortal. It is very well 
known that from this time Burns com- 
posed very few pieces but songs ; and 
whether we ought or ought not, to regret 
that such was the case, must wholly depend 
u[)on the estimate which we make of hia 
songs as compared with his other poems : — 
a point on which critics are to this hoiu 
divided, and on which neither they, nor 
their descendants or successors, are very 
Hkely to agree, Mr. Walker, who is one of 
those who lament Burns's comparative 
dereliction of the species of com|)osition 
which he most cultivated in the earhj days 
of his inspiration, suggests, very scmsiIiI}', 
that if Burns had not taken to song-writing, 
he would probably have written little or 
nothing, amidst the various temptations to 
company and dissipation which now, and 
from this time forward surrounded him,— 
to say nothing of the active duties of life 
in which he was at length about to he 
engaged" — Lockhaut. To this .Mr. I>ock- 
hart might have added, or Jlr. Walker 
might have suggested, the peculiarly is.-(le>3 
and desultory nature of his disposition, which 
having been harrasscd and rendered more 
1 constantly unsettled Vy a series of succes- 
I give disappointments, vexatious, enibanas 
I ments, &c., forbad the eugthencd jiirsuii o< 



466 



NOTES TO THE 



any laige sunjefrt, »nd which rendered verse 
a kind of "^ifety valve wheieby the ebulli- 
tion of vexation, sorrow, or excitement of 
any kind found vent, and in which the 
brilHancy of a momentary flash of imagery 
fjund life and light like a passing meteor. 
[Ed] 

Page 51, Note 87. — Bums was occnpy- 
in!j apartments in the house, or rather 
clianibers of JNIr. William Cruikshanks, one 
of tlie masters of the high school. The 
portion in which Burns resided overlooked 
the enclosure in the rear of the Register 
House. Tlie house was at that time called 
No. 2, St. James's Square, (since No. 30,) 
and it was the top story which was in the 
occupation of Mr. C. It was in the month 
of December of this year (1787) that Burns 
first met and became acquainted with the 
celebrated Clarinda (Mrs. Mac Lehose) at 
a tea party in the house of Miss Nimno 
(of some liierary celebrity) in Allison's 
Square, Potter Row. Mrs. Mac Lehose, 
•whose personal beauty, amiable disposition, 
and remarkable taste and intelligence made 
■o deep an impression upon the poet, was 
at this time (and had so been since the deser- 
tion of her husband, who had betaken him- 
self to the West Indies in quest of fortune), 
residing with her young children in Edin- 
burgh upon very limited means, chiefly 
supplied by the friends or members of her 
own family. The charms of her person 
and conversation, added to the peculiar 
interest of her story, which involved the 
tender chord of unhappy attachment, at 
once wrouglit upon Burns, and one of those 
peculiar intimacies sprung up between them, 
which could only be understood by persons 
of equally refined sensibilities and purity of 
principle. The correspondence between them 
was thenceforward almost as ardent as it 
was constant and innocent, as may be 
gathered from the letters included in the 
correspondence of the poet. It has been 
said that the publication of Mrs. Mac 
Ijchose's letters to Burns, and of those of 
Burns to her, was to be regretted, and was 
to be attributed to the indiscretion of her 
friends. It does not at all appear that she 
was opposed to their publication after her 
death, nor could any thing serve to reflect 
higher honour upon her than the contents 
of this reciprocal correspondence. 

Page 52, Note 88. — The commencement 
of this lyric piece was subsequently intro- 
duced mto the Clievallier's Lament, and the 
lines so introduced are remarkable for the 
|ia<rnificencc of their imagery. 

Fi.Gfi 52, Note 89. — Mr. Rji-«say was 



an erthusiastic student of the -.lassies, and 
had his house and grounds garnished 
thickly with passages of ancient wisdom. It 
is necessary to distinguish his house, situated 
near Stirling, from Ochterryre near Crietf, 
the seat of Sir William Muriay, where Burns 
was also entertained. Mt. Ramsay died 
at his house of Ochtertyre, March 2, 1814. 

Page 52, Note 90.— Extract of a letVer 
from Mr. Ramsay to Dr. Currie. Tliis 
incorrigibility of Burns extended, however, 
only to liis poems printed before he arrived 
in Edinburgh ; for, in regard to his un- 
publislied poems, he was amenable to criti- 
cism, of which many proofs might be 
given. 

Page 52, Note 91. — Patrick TMiller, 
Esq., had realised, as a banker in Edinburgh, 
the means of purchasing the estate of Dals- 
winton on the Nith. He was a man of 
enlightened mind, and much mechanical inge- 
nuity, the latter of which qualities he dis- 
played in the invention of a vessel propelled 
by paddled wheels, to which, at tlie sugges- 
tion of his children's preceptor, j\Ir. Taylor, 
the steam engine was afterwards applied, so 
that he was enabled to make the first ascer- 
tained exempli/icntmi of steam navUjation 
upon a small Jake near his house, in Octobej 
1788. Some discouraging circumstances, 
unconnected with the invention, were the 
sole means of preventing him from bringing 
it into practical operation — an honour 
which was reserved for the Americau 
Fulton. Mr. Miller died, December 9th, 
1815. 

Page 52, Note 92. — IMr. Heron states 
that the pcet's appointment to the excise 
was owing to the kindness of Jlr. Alexander 
Wood, surgeon, (aff'ectionately remembered 
in Edinburgh by the appellation of t'amhj 
Wood), who having, wliile in atteinlance 
on Burns for his bruised limb, heard him 
express his wishes, waited on Mr. Graham, 
of Fintry, one of the commissioners, by 
whom the name of the poet was immedially 
put upon the roll. 

Page 53, Note 93. — The Edinburgh 
Magazine for June 1799, contains the follow- 
ing statement, apparently from authority : — 
"M.. Miller offered Mr. Burns the choice 
cf several farms on the estate of Dalswintqp, 
which were at that time out of lease. Mr. 
Bums gave the preference to tlie farm of 
Ellisland, most charmingly situated on the 
banks of the Nith, containing upwards of a 
hundred acres of most excellent land " (thia 
must be taken with a deduction), " then 
worth a rent of from eighty to a hundred 
pouudi. Mr. Miller, ifter showing Mr 




■'-'^^m 




(3^ 

iiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



467 



Burns «liat the farm cost him to a farthino;, 
allowed him to lix the rental himself, and 
tiie endurance of the lease. A lease was 
accordingly given to the poet on his own 
terms, namely, for fifty-seven years, at the 
very low rent of fifty pounds. And, in addi- 
tion to this, when Mr. Burns signed the tack, 
Mr. JMiller presented hnu with two hundred 
pounds, to enable him to enclose and im- 
prove his farm. It is usual to allow tenants 
ft year's rent for this purpose, but the sum 
Mr. Miller gave him was at least four years' 
rent. Mr. Miller has since sold the farm to 
John M'Morrine, Esq., at nineteen hundred 
pounds, leaving to himself seven acres on 
the Dalswinton side of the river." Mr. 
Lockhart, on the other hand, states that the 
lease was for four successive terms, of nine- 
teen years eacli, at fifty pounds for the 
first three years' crops, and seventy for all 
the rest; Mr. Miller giving three hundred 
pounds to renew the farm-house and offices, 
and agreeing to defray the expense of any 
plantations which Burns might, make on the 
banks of the river. 

Page 54, Note 94. — In apposite illus- 
tration of the feelings roused by this cir- 
cumstance, we have the following lines 
which celebrate the moment. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae-body; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'U gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There ! — thanks to nae-body; 

I hae nae-thing to lend. 
I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-body; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nae-body; 

If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 

Page 54, Note 95. — The poem of The 
Whistle celebrates a bacchanalian contest 
among three gentlemen of Nithsdale, where 
Burns appears as umpire. Mr. Riddel died 
*)efore our bard, who wrote some elegiac 
verses to his memory, entitled. Sonnet on 
tlie Death of Robert Riddel. From liira, 
and from all the members of his family. 
Burns received not kindness only, but friend- 
ship ; and the society he met in general at 
Friar's Carse was calculated to improve his 
habits as well as his manners. Mr. Fergus- 



son, of Craigdarroch, so well known fir hii 
eloquence and social talents, fell a vict/m to 
an accidental hijury occasioned by a fall from 
his chaise, according to some, after the death 
of Burns, but more autlientically, throe 
months before that event, viz., in the month 
of March, 1796. Sir Robert Laurie, the 
third person in the drama, has since been 
engaged in contests of a bloodier uatuie, 
and outlived the last century. 

Page 54, Note 96. — Respecting Burns's 
appointment to the Excise, Mr. VV. Nicol 
wrote in the following terms to Mr. R, 
Ainslie, from Edinburgh, August 13, 1790; 
— " As to Burns, poor folks, like you and I, 
must resign all thoughts of future corres- 
pondence with him. To the pri,!e of ap- 
plauded genius is now superadded ilie pride 
of office He was lately raised to the dignity 
of an Examiner of Excise, which is a step 
preparative to attaining that of a Supervisor. 
Therefore, we can expect no less than that 
his language will become perfectly lloratiun 
— ' odi profanum vulgus et arceo.' However, 
I will see him in a fortnight hence, and if I 
find that Beelzebub has inflated his heart, 
like a bladder, with pride, and given it the 
fullest distension that vanity can eltcct, you 
and I will burn him in effigy, and write a 
satire, as bitter as gall and wormwood 
against government for employing its enemies, 
like Lord North, to effect its purposes. 
This will be taking aU the revenge in our 
power." 

Page 55, Note 97. — Some misapprehen- 
sion, perhaps, exists with respect to Burns'a 
qualifications fur ordinary business. 'Hhi 
real state of the case we take to have been 
this : that Burns disliked the drudgery of 
common worldly affairs, but was by no means 
defitient in the sagacity, observation, and 
perseverance required from a man of the 
world. Colonel Fullerton has paid him a 
compliment on a farmer-like piece of acumen 
in a note to his View of Agriculture in 
Ayrshire, 1793 : — "In order," he says, "to 
prevent the danger arising from horned 
cattle in studs and straw-yards, the best 
mode is to cut out the budding knob, or 
root of the horn, while the calf is very young 
This was suggested to me by !Mr. Robert 
Burns, whose general talents are no less 
conspicuous than the poetic powers which 
have done so much honour to the county 
where he was born." 

Page 55, Note 98. — This bowl ^raa 
made of the stone of which Inverary House 
is built, the mansion of the faiiily of Argyle 
The stone is the lapis ollaris. The punch- 
bowl passed through the hands of Mr 



41 




c(i^¥Mk 



nm^ 




168 



NOTES TO THE 



AlexatK^er Cnnning'Tiam, jeweller, in Edin- 
burirh, to those of Mr. Hastie, present 
representative of Paisley in parliament, who 
IS said to have refused three hundred guineas 
for it — a sum that would have set the poet 
on his legs for ever. 

Page 56, Note 99. — This ballad begins 
with the following well penned Jines : — 

The moon had climbed the highest hill 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 

And from tlie eastern summit shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree. 

Page 56, Note 100. — Mr. Gordon has 
■ince become Lord Viscount Kenmure. 

Page 56, Note 101.— A very expressive 
Scotch term, which, as will be seen in the 
glossary, signifies the brink or margin of 
flowing water. 

Page 57, Note 102. — Tlie identical Lord 
Selkirk, of whom Sir "Walter Scott has 
furnished us with a smart and interesting 
anecdote. 

Page 58, Note 103. — Mr. Chambers's 
vakiable contributions to the anecdotes and 
traditions relating to Burns, furnis-h us with 
the following collectanea ; — 

"Mr. Ladyman, an English commercial 
traveller, alighting one afternoon, in the year 
1794, at Brownhill, a stage about thirteen 
miles from Dumfries, was informed by the 
landlord that Mr. Burns, the celebrated poet, 
was in the house, and that he had now the 
best possible opportunity of being introduced 
to the company of the cleverest man in 
Scotland. Mr. Ladyman immediately re- 
quested the honour of an introduction, and 
was forthwith shown into the room in which 
tbe bard was sitting with two other gentle- 
men of the road. The landlord, who was a 
forward sort of a man, and stood upon no 
ceremony with Burns, presented Mr. Lady- 
man ; and while the poet rose and received 
the stranger traveller with that courtesy 
which always marked his conduct towards 
atrangers, sat down himself along with his 
guesis, and mixed in the conversation. 

Wlien j\lr. Ladyman entered the inn, it 
iras about two o'clock. The poet had been 
drinking since mid-day with the two gentle- 
men, and was slightly elevated with liquor, 
but not to such a degree as to make any 
particular alteration upon his voice or manner. 
He did not speak much, or take any eager 
share in the conversation. He frequently 
leant down his head upon the edge of the 
table, and was silent for a considerable time, 
as if he had been suffering bodily pain. 
However, when opportunity occurred, he 
woald start up, and say something shrewd 



or decisive upon tbe subject in agita 
tion. 

About an hour after Mr. Ladyman arrived, 
dinner was presented, consisting of beans 
and bacon, &c, of which the lauc'Iord partook, 
like the rest of the company, evidently to 
the displeasure of the poet. During the 
course of the subsequent toddy, Mr. Lady- 
man ventured to request of Burns to let the 
company have a small specimen of his poetry 
upon any s\ibject he liked to think of — 'just 
anything, in short — whatever might come 
uppermost — doggrel or not.' Burns was 
never offended by any solicitation of this 
sort, when it was made in a polite manner, 
cud with proper deference to his own good 
pleasure. In the present case, he granted 
the request so readily, that, almost imme- 
diately after Mr. Ladyman had done speaking, 
he deliberately uttered the following lines : — 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good 

cheer. 
And plenty of Bacon, each day in the year ; 
We've all things that's uoat, and mostly in 

season — 
But why always Bacon? — come, give me a 

reason ! 

It must be understood that Bacon was the 
name of the landlord, whose habit of intruding 
into all companies was thus cleverly ridiculeii 

As far as Mr. Ladyman can recolle'^t, 
Burns pronounced the lines without the 
least hesitation of voice, and apparently 
without findnig any difficulty in embodying 
the thought in rhyme. No effort seemed' 
necessary. He happened to have the glass 
in his hand at the time the request was 
made, and so trifling was the exertion of 
intellect apparently required, that he did 
not put it down upon the table, but waited 
till lie concluded the epigram, and then 
drank off his liquor amidst the roar of ap- 
plause that ensued. The landlord had retired 
some little time before, otherwise Burns 
would not, perhaps, have chosen him as the 
subject of his satire. There is no doubt, 
however, that he would see and hear enough 
of it afterwards : for Burns, at the earnest 
entreaties of the company, immediately com- 
mitted it to the breath of Fame, by writing 
it upon one of the panes in the window 
behind his chair. — Extract from an early 
M.S. note-book. 

The acquaintance which Burns maintained 
with a considerable number of the gentry of 
his neighbourhood, was Eot favourable to 
him. They frequently ser.t him game from 
their estates, and disdained not to come to 
his house to partake of it. The large quatt 




LEPE OF BUIINS. 



469 



titles of mm which floMed into his stores 
gratuitously, in consequence of seizures, as 
was then the custom, were also injurious. 
Yet, as far as circumstances left him to his 
own inclinations, he was a man of simple, as 
well as kindly domestic habits. As he was 
oftcu detained by company Iroin tne aniner 
provided for him by his wife, she sometimes, 
on a conjecture of his probable absence, 
would not prepare that meal for him. When 
he chanced to come home and find no dinner 
ready, he was never in the least troubled or 
irritated, but would address himself with 
the greatest cheerfulness to any succeda- 
neum that could be readily set before him. 
They generally had abundance of good Dun- 
lop cheese, sent to them by their Ayrshire 
friends. The poet would sit down to that 
whoJesorae fare, with bread and butter, and 
his book by his side, and seem, to any casual 
\i»Uur, sucii as iMiss Lewars, as happy as a 
courtier at the feast of kings. 

lie was always anxious that his wife 
should have a neat and genteel appearance. 
In consequence, as she alleged, of the duties 
of nursing and attending to her infants, she 
could not help being sometimes a little slo- 
venly. Burns disliked this, and not only 
remonstrated against it in a gentle way, but 
did tlie utmost that in him lay to counteract 
it, by buying for her the best clothes he 
could afford. Any little novelty in female 
dress was almost sure to meet with patronage 
from Burns — all with the aim of keeping up 
a spirit for neat dressing in his wife. She 
Was, for instance, one of the first persons in 
Dumfries who appeared iu a dress of ging- 
ham — a stuff now common to all, but, at its 
first introduction, rather costly, and almost 
exclusively used by persons of superior con- 
dition." 

Page 58, Note 104.— Mr. Lockhart 
enters into a long discussion of the poet's 
political sentiments, and the nature of the 
circumstances here alluded to. He leaves 
the whole matter in a state of doubt, for 
which, we tliink, there is no just occasion. 
Burns unquestionably felt as a zealous par- 
tisan of the French Revolution. A mind so 
generous and upright as his could have taken 
no other course. That such was the case, 
his " Vision" at Linchulen College, his In- 
scription for an altar of Independence, and 
his Tree of Liberty, introduced into the pre- 
sent ediiion of his poems, are sufficient proof : 
more may be found in some specimens of an 
unpublished poem given by Mr. Cunning- 
ham ; — 
* Why should we idly waste our prime 

Kepeatiug our oppressions ? 



Come, rouse to arms, 'tis now the tince 

To punish past transgressions. 
'Tis said that kings can do no wrong— 

Their murderous deeds deny it ; 
And, since from us their power is sprung. 

We have a riifht to try it. 
iNnw eacn true patriot's song sl^ be, 
Welcome death or libertie. 

* • • 

Proud bishops next we will translate. 

Among priest-crafted martyrs ; 
The guillotine on peers shall wait. 

And knights shall hang in garters; 
Those despots long have trod us dowB^ 

And judges are their engines — 
Such wretched minions of a crown 

Demand the people's vengeance. 
, * * * 

The golden age we'll then revive, 

Each man v/ill be a brother; 
Iu harmony we all shall live. 

And share the earth together. 
In virtue trained, enlightened youth 

Will love each fellow-creature ; 
And future years shall prove the truth 

That man is good by nature. 
Then let us toast, with three times three, 
The reign of peace and libertie." 

A lady with whom a recent editor ol 
Burns's works, once conversed, remembered 
being present in the theatre of Dumfries, 
during the heat of the French Revolution, 
on which occasion, the poet, somewhat heated 
with liquor, entered the pit. Upon the 
orchestra, striking up the national anthem, 
the company, and audience of the theatre 
rose, with the single exception of Burns, 
who loudly shouted fa ira. An uproar 
ensued, and the poet was obliged to leave 
the theatre. The apologists of the govern- 
ment who, say what they will, neglected 
and slighted the purest genius of his age, 
make escapades of this nature their excuse. 
They attempt, however, to adduce the 
testimony of Mr. Alexander Findlater, the 
officer under whom Burns served in the 
Excise, to show that the most harmless re- 
buke only, was levelled at the unruly and 
independent spirit of the bard. However 
this may be, his promotion was very much 
retarded, althougli it is admitted that 
ultimately it was not prevented. 

Page 59, Note 105. — Mr. Lockhart has 
favoured us with a most interesting anecdote 
respecting the effect of the political opinions 
of Burns upon his social position. To the 
shame of the Scottish Whiggism he it re- 
corded. "Mr. David Maculloch, a son of 
the Laird of Axdwell, has told me that hk 



«70 



NOTES TO THE 



was seldom ni ore grieved, than vvhen riding 
into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, to 
attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking 
alone, on the shady side of the principal 
street of the town, while the opposite part 
was gay with successive groups of gentlemen 
and ladies, all drawn together for the festi- 
vities of the night, not one of whom appeared 
willing to recognise him. The horseuian 
dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his 
proposing to him to cross the street, said, 
'Nay, nay, my young friend — that's all over 
now ;' ard quoted, after a pause, some verses 
of Lady Grizzel Bailiie's pathetic ballad : — 

'His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow. 
His auld ane look'd better than mony 

ane's new ; 
But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing. 
And casts himsel dowie upon the corn-biug. 

Oh were we young, as we ance hae been, 
We should hae been galloping douu ou you 

green, 
And linking it ower the lily-white lea — 
And werena my heart liyht I wad die.' 

It was little in Burns's character to let 
his feelings on certain subjects escape in this 
fashion. He immediately, after citmg these 
verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most 
pleasing manner; and, taking his young 
friend home with him, entertained him very 
agreeably until the hour of the ball arrived, 
with a bowl of his usual potation, and boii- 
uie Jean's singing of some verses which he 
had recently composed." — Lockhart. 

Page 59, Note 106. — See the poem enti- 
tled The Dumfries Volunteers. — Currie. 
Previous to one of the public meetings of 
this body — a regular field-day, which was to 
terminate in a grand dinner — it was hinted to 
the bard that something would be expected 
from him in the shape of a song or speech- 
some glowing tribute hi honour of the patrio- 
tic cause that had linked them together, and 
eke in honour of the martial glory of old 
Scotland. The poet said nothing, but as 
silence gives f,onsent,it was generally expected 
that he would share them on the occasion of 
ihe approaehing festival with another lyric 
or energetic oration. The day at length 
arrived ; dinner came and passed, and the 
usual loyal toasts were drunk with all the 
honours. Now came the poet's turn ; every 
eye was fixed upon him, and, slowly lifting 
his glass, he stood up and looked around 
him with an arch, indescribable expression of 
countenance, ' Gentlemen,' said he, ' may 
we never see the French, nor the French see 
-•I' The tOMt fell like a 'wet blanket.* •• 



Moore says, on the hopes of the Volun 
teers. 

' Is that a'?' they muttered one to anothwr 
dropping down to their seats— to use tin 
words of my informant, who was present — ■ 
'like so many old wives at afield-preaching; 
' Is that the grand speech or fine poem tliat 
we were to have from him ? — but we could 
hae expected nae better!' Not a few, how- 
ever, ' raxed their ja\i s,' is the Ettrick Sliep- 
herd says, at the homely truth and humour 
of the poet's sentiment, heightened by the 
first rueful aspect r,i the company ; and, long 
after, in his jovial moments. Burns used to 
delight in telling how he had cheated the 
volunteers of Dumfries." — R. Carruthers, 
in the Edinburgh Literary Journal. 

Page 59, Note 107. — These lines wer? 
published in the periodical collection of Scot- 
tish songs produced under the title of John- 
son's Musical Museum. They bear date about 
1791, and, as the text is given above, they 
bear the latest corrections of the poet. It 
is one of the best of Burns's productions, 
but its merit failed to be strongly or po|)u- 
larly observed until the first few years of the 
present century, wlnen the martial glory of 
Great Britain had grown of more general 
admiration, and had enlisted a more univer- 
sal enthusiasm, such as to overwhelm all 
minor political predilections. It is, perhaps, 
on account of this tardy popularity that 
Burns was readily dissuaded at the time 
from reprinting it separately, in exlenso, with 
a new and appropriate air. 

Page 61, Note 108. — According to the 
current story which is generally received at 
Dumfries, it was in this condition of intoxi- 
cation that he sat down on the door step of 
a house on his way homeward, and fell fast 
asleep. Exposed to the inclemency of the 
season and night air, and doubly susceptible, 
owing to the exhausted condition of his ner- 
vous system, and to the deleterious ertect <A 
liquor, he became so chilled as to induce a 
fatal disorder. 

Page 61, Note 109. — This was Mr«. 
Riddel, of Woodlee Park. 

Page 62, Note 110. — According to Mr. 
Cunningham, Burns civpired after a violent 
and convulsive struggle, " rishig at the last 
moment, and springing to the bottom of the 
bed." Mr. Cunningham, however, it is ad- 
mitted, supplies us with this iiiforinatioii ou 
hearsay. Another biographer denies the 
possibility of such an effort, stating that 
Burns was in "no condition" (t. e. too ex- 
hausted), to have made such a movement. 
Were the question of any importance, and 
no better refuted thau by the possibilitt 












LITE OF BUKNS. 



471 



being »ned in question, Mr. Cunningham 
might certainly overthrow the denial of his 
statement. But there is an account for 
wiiich we are indebted to Dr. Maxwell, the 
medical attendant, who was at the bedside 
of the poet, in which it is averred that poor 
Burns expired with perfect calmness, and in 
apparent consciousness, after some houne of 
low muttering delirium. 

Page 63, Note 111.— Mr. Whyte is the 
author of a poem entitled St. Guerdon's 
Well, and of the piece entitled a tribute to 
the memory of Burns. 

Page 03, Note 112. — Dr. Currie men- 
t'ons that Burns died free of debt Accord- 
ing to another biographer, however, " the 
strict fact tliat he owed but £7. 4s. at that 
period, serves, like the exception with the 
rule, to coutirm the report of the biogra- I 
pher. It is also worthy of notice that he i 
left a collection of books, estimated as worth I 
ninety-two pounds. The terror of a jail, I 
which haunted him a short while before his 
death, and afterwards recurred in delirium, 
was excited by a pressing note for payment 
of I'.is regimentals, which had been sent to 
him by Mr. David Williamson, a Dumfries 
shopkeeper — a person, we have been assured, 
who never could have resorted to any ex- 
treme measure with his illustrious debtor. 
Five pounds, requested from and promptly 
sent by Mr. Thomson a few days before his 
death, removed the cause of the terror, but 
unfortunately did not obliterate the feeling 
which it had raised." 

Page 63, Note 113.— This Mr. Stobie 
was in the ordinary service of the Excise as 
late as 1818, at Pinkie Salt Pans. He is 
said to have spoken of Burns's musical ac- 
complishments in the following terms : — 
" He sang like a nightingale ; but he had 
the voice of a boar." The expression ap- 
pears contradictory ; but, by the complimen- 
tary part of it, he only understood, in all 
probability, the readiness with which the 
poet would attune his voice when requested 
to do so. [This anecdote has been told by 
some one else of two different persons, who, 
although, they affected to shun Burns as a 
lep'obdte whilst living (though God wot, the 
poet would certainly not have sought their 
comjiany), were prone to boast of him as lui 
aciiiiaiiilance when his reputation alone re- 
mained to hallow and endear popular recol- 
lections. I am, therefore, much inclined to 
exonerate Mr. Stobie from an ill-natured 
remark, which seems scarcely in accordance 
with the tenor of his conduct.] i 

Page 63, Note 114.— The death of I 
Burns occurred on the 21st of July, and he < 

41 



lost consciousness as early as the 16th, front 
which time he continued almost continually 
unconscious and rambling. The letter from 
Mr. Graham could not, in all probability, as 
cross country posts went at that time, have 
been delivered until the 15th, for it was only 
dated on the 13th. 

P.\GE 04, Note 115. — "During his resi- 
dence in Glasgow, a characteristic instance 
occurred of the way in which he would re- 
press petulance and presumption. A young 
man of some literary pretensions, who had 
newly commenced business as a bookseller, 
had been in the practice of writing notices 
of Burns's Poems in a style so flippant, and 
withal so patronising, as to excite fielings in 
the poet towards him very dilferent from 
what he counted upon. Beckoning, however, 
upon a very grateful reception from Burns, 
he was particularly anxious for an early in- 
troduction to his company, and, as his friends 
knew, had been at some pains to prepare 
himself for making dazzling impressions 
upon the Ayrshire ploughman — as it was 
then the fashion, amongst a certain kind o< 
literary folks, to call the poet. At the 
moment the introduction took place. Burns 
was engaged in one of his happiest and most 
playfid veins with my friend and another 
intimate or two ; but, upon the gentleman's 
presentation, who advanced in a manner 
sufficiently affable, the 'ploughman' assumed 
an air of such dignified coldness, as froze 
him into complete silence during the time 
he remained in his company." — Correspond- 
ent of the Scotsman, 1828. 

Page 65, Note 116.— Smellie's Philo- 
sophy of Natural History. 

Page 65, Note 117. — The subjoined 
passage quoted from Quintilian, Inst. Orat. 
ii, 9, is appositely parallel to t!ie sense of 
this observition: — An vero Isocrates cum 
de Ephoro atque Theopompo sic Judicaret, 
ut alteri frenis, alteri calcaribus 
OPUS ESSE diceret ; aut in illo lentiore tar- 
ditatem. aut in illo pene prtecipiti con- 
citationein adjuvandum docendo existimavit, 
cum alterum alterius natura misceiidum 
arbitraretur? Imbeciliis tameii ingeniis sane 
sic obsequendum sit, ut tantum in id quo 
vocat natura, ducantur. Ita euim, quod 
solum possunt, melius efficient." 

Page 06, Note 118, — The reader must 
not suppose it is contended, that the same 
individual could have excelled in all these 
directions. A certain degree of instruction 
and practice, is necessary to excellence ia 
every one, atid life is too short to admit 
of one man, however great his talents, 
acquiring this in all of them. It hs only 




i!iiiii'iniii!'iiii'ii!niin!ii!i'iiiniiiinniii!iiiiiiiiiiii!:iiii 



:^l 



4Mt^yP 




472 



NOTES TO THE 



Bsserted, that the same talents, differently 
ai)pli<;d, might have succeeded in any one, 
though, perhaps, not equally well in each. 
Aud, after all, this position requires certain 
limitations, which the reader's candour 
aud judgment will supply. In supposing 
that a great poet- might have made a great 
orator, the physical qualities necessary 
to oratory are pre-supposed. In supposing 
that a great orator might have made a great 
poet, it is a necessary condition, that he 
should have devoted himself to poetrj', and 
that he should have acquired a proflcienay 
in metrical numbers, which by patience and 
attention may be acquired, though the 
want of it has embarrassed and chilled many 
of the first efforts of true poetical genius. 
In supposing that Homer might have led 
armies to victory, more, indeed, is assumed 
than the physical qualities of a general. To 
these must be added that hardihood of 
niiud, that coolness in the midst of difficulty 
und danger, which great poets and orators 
are found sometimes, but not always, to 
possess. The nature of the institutions of 
Greece and Kome produced more instances 
of single individuals who excelled in various 
departments of active and speculative life, 
than occur in modem Europe, where the 
employments of men are more subdivided. 
Alany of the greatest warriors of antiquity 
ixcelled in literature and in oratory. That 
they had the minds of great poets also, will 
be admitted, when the qualities are justly 
appreciated which are necessary to excite, 
combine, and command tlie active energies 
■)f a great body of men ; to rouse that en- 
thusiasm which sustains fatigue, hunger, and 
♦he inclemencies of the elements, and which 
(Tiumphs over the fear of death, the most 
powerful instinct of our nature. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed 
to, ill favour of the close connection between 
the poet and the orator. " Est eniin 
finitimus oratori poeta, numeris adstrict'or 
paulo, verborum autum licentia liberior," 
&c. — De Orator, lib. i. c. 16. See also 
lib. iii. c. 7. It is true, the example of 
Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. 
His attempts in verse, which are praised 
by Plr.tarch, do not seem to have met the 
approbation of Juvenal, or of some others. 
Cicero probably did not take sufficient 
time to leain the art of the poet ; but that 
he had the 'iffl/ilus necessary to poetical 
excellence, may be abundantly pro\ed from 
his compositions in prose. On the other hand, 
nothing is more clear, than that, in the 
character of a great poet, all the mental 
-Tialities of an orator are included. It is 



said by Quintihftu, of Homer, "Osnr.ibui 
eloquentiae partibus exemplum et ortuni de- 
dit." — Lib. i. 47. The study of Homer ia 
therefore recommended to the orator, as of 
the first importance. Of the two sublime 
poets in our own language, who are hardly 
inferior to Homer, Shakspeare and Jliltou, 
a similar recommendation may be given. 
It is scarcely necessary to mention how 
much an acquaintance with them haa 
avaded the great orator who is now the 
pride and ornament of the English bar, a 
character that may be appealed to with 
siiigidar propriety, when we are contendiiijj 
for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great simi- 
larity, of the talents uecessar}' to excellence 
ia poetry, oratory, painting, and war, will 
be admitted by some who will be inclined 
to dispute the extension of the position 
to science or natural knowledge. On thia 
occasion, I may quote the following obser- 
vations of Sir William Jones, whose own 
example will, however, far exceed in weight 
the authority of his precepts : — " A.bid Ola 
had so flourishing a reputation, that several 
persons of uucoinmon genius were ambi- 
tious of learning the art of poetry from so 
able an instructor. His most illustrious 
scholars were Feleki and Khakani, who were 
no less eminent for their Persian composi- 
tions than for their skill in every braucii of 
pure and mixed mathematics, and particu- 
larly in astronomy — a striking proof that a 
sublime poet may become master of any 
kind of learning which he chooses to 
profess ; since a fine imagniation, a lively 
wit, an easy and copious style, cannot 
possibly obstruct the acquisitior of any 
science whatever, but must necessarily 
assist him in his studies, and shorten his 
labour." — Sir William Jones's Works, vol. ii. 
p. 317. 

PAf5E 67, Note 119. — These strictures 
may, however, be very considerably extended. 
Cobbett is not the only philosopher who iias 
revealed the deleterious properties of other 
stimulants, or of other productions, which 
are, to all intents and purposes, employed as 
such. There are a great number of other 
substances which may be considered under 
this point of view — tobacco, tea, and coffee, 
are of the number. These substances essen- 
tially differ from each other in their qualities ; 
and an inquiry into the particular effects of 
each on the health, morals, and happiness of 
those who use them, would be curious aud 
usefid. The effects of wine and of opium on 
the temperament of sensibility, tlie editoi 
intended f,o have discussed m this place a( 



LIFE OP BUKNS. 



474 



?ome length ; but he found the subjeot too 
exteusi\e and too professional to be intro- 
duced with propriety. The difficulty of 
abandoninof any of these narcotics (if we may 
so term them), when inclination is strength- 
e iPil by habit, is well known. Johnson, in 
h,^ distresses, had experienced the cheering 
Out treaclierous influence of wine, and, by a 
powerful eiFort, abandoned it. He was 
ojliged, however, to use tea as a substitute, 
and this was the solace to which he con- 
stantly had recourse under his habitual 
melancholy. The praises of wiae form 
many of the most beautiful lyrics of the 
poets of Greece aud Rome, and of modern 
Europe. Whether opium, which produces 
visions still more ecstatic, has been the 
theme of the eastern poets, I do not know. 

Wine is drunk in small quantities at a 
time, in company, where, for a time, it pro- 
motes harmony and social affection. Opium 
is swallowed by the Asiatics in full doses at 
once, and the inebriate retires to the solitary 
indulgence of his delirious imaginations. 
Hence, the wine drinker appears in a supe- 
rior light to the imbiber of opium, a dis- 
tinction which he owes more to the form 
than to the quality of his liquor. 

Page 68, Note 120.— Mrs. Riddel of 
Woodlee Park 

Page 72, Note 121. — Take, for instance, 
the atithors or collaters of the Belicice Poet- 
arum Scoforum, and others. 

Page 73, Note 122. — Lord Karnes. 

Page 74, Note 123.— A few Scottish 
ballads, attributable to the last century, have 
been got together in the Pepys collection, 
but without clue to the authorships. 

Page 74, Note 124. — Some strong rea- 
sons are assigned by a contributor signing 
himself J. Runcole, who addresses Mr. 
Ramsay in the second volume of The Bee, for 
doubting the autlienticity of a great number 
of Scottish Songs of professedly remote 
antiquity, and of much celebrity. The quo- 
tation cited above, is extracted from a letter 
addressed by Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, to 
Dr. Currie, and dated Sept. 11th, 1799. 

P.\ge 175, Note 25 — Allan Ramsay, it 
is said, was employed in the capacity of a 
washer of ore, in the lead mines, at Lead 
Hills, belonging to the Earl of Hopetown. 
His father was, and had from his youth, 
also been a workman in the same mines. 
But it is to be remarked that the limited 
hours of mine-labour (only six per diem, or, 
according to some, only four), together with 
the general good character, sobriety, and 
intelligence of the people, and the con- 
venience of & good library containing some 



thousands of volumes, in common amongst 
them, contributed to afford these men very 
superior opportunities of intellectual im- 
provement. 

Page 75, Note 126. — Mr. Ramsay of 
Ochtertyre, writing to one of Burns's Bio- 
graphers, gives the following account of 
Allan Ramsay ; — " He was coeval with 
Joseph Mitchell, and his club of small wits, 
who, about 1719, published a very poor 
miscellany, to which, Dr. Young, the author 
of Nir/ht Thoughts, prefixed a copy of 
verses *' 

Page 75, Note 127.— The first line of 
this piece runs thus : — 

" Wliat beauties does Flora disclose !" 

Page 75, Note 128.— The first line or 
this piece runs thus : — 

"1 have heard a lilting at our ewe's milking " 

Page 76, Note 129 —This Mrs. Cock 
burn died before the poet ; that is, on tin 
22nd of November, 1794. 

Page 76, Note 130.— See the Intro- 
duction to the History of Pof'-y in Scotland, 
by T. Campbell, and an article affording a 
Biographical Sketch of this writer in the 
Supplement to the Encyclopcedia Britannica. 

Page 77, Note 131. — Critics and Anti- 
quarians are equally divided on this point. 
Mr. Tytler has struggled very hard to 
establish the genuineness of authorship for 
this piece, whilst Sir D. Dalrymple most 
unaccountably attributes it to James VI 
Pray, Sir David, where did you discover that 
the fifth James was either a wit or a poet ? 
That he was an arrant pedant is undoubtedly 
true. But the first James was certainly one 
of the best of poets whom Scotland has pro. 
duced. There is ample evidence of hit 
having fathered verses, and verses of very 
great merit, and of his pecidiar love of music 
and minstrelsy. 

Page 78, Note 132.— This is the title of 
the poem selected as an instance; and being 
rendered into English, would mean The 
Farmer's Fireside. 

Page 78, Note 133.— Why the acute 
observation, and true portraiture, afforded in 
this surprising production, should, upon its 
first appearance, have struck the highe? 
orders of society with astonishment, ii 
readily to be understood. The qircunistaucei 
and position of the poet, which efi'ectually 
excluded him from ever having iiad an 
opportunity of mingling with any but the 
society of peasants, seemed to add tlie charm 
of inspiration, or of intuitive perception, to 
the accurate delineation of character, df 



t74 



NOTES TO THE 



cumstauce, &c., ia the npper walks of life. 
But, like all true and tatural philosophers, 
Burns saw in human nature nothing but 
human nature, and that same nature bearing 
the indelible stamp of its constitution 
identical and unerased, notwithstandmg the 
small differences of condition and circum- 
stance. The poem, therefore, is merely a 
testimony to the natural sagacity of the 
poet. 

Page 79, Note 134. — The poet's "Ear- 
nest Cry and Prayer to the Scottish Repre- 
»entatives in Parliament." 

P.\Gii 79, Note 135.— By a "Highland 
pill," is meant a gill of the native Highland 
beverage, namely, whisky. 

Pare 79, Note 136. — In English, we 
should expres-s these terms by the para- 
phrase — " the middle of the street, and the 
footway." 

Page 79, Note 137. — In the piece en- 
titled the " Brigs of Ayr." 

Page 79, Note 138. — As will be seen in 
the glossary, this term signifies a messenger. 

Page 79, Notes 139 and 140.— The 
" Dungeon Clock" (or Tower Clock) and the 
"Wallace Tower," are the names of the 
ateeples of Ayr. 

Page 80, Note 141. — This festival is 
still very po])uliirly observed (or rather, was 
BO, until the political and religious agitations 
had been revived of late years) in some parts 
of Ireland. In the remote and aboriginal 
districts of North Wales also, we have 
many instances of its constant observance. 

Page 80, Note 142.— For truth and 
exactness of pencilling, for the brightness of 
colour, and for the delicacy and gentleness 
of description, this passage is almost un- 
rivalled. In its own melting, soft, impressive 
monosyllabic diction, it is inimitable. The 
bold descriptions of Thomson here compared 
with this passage, have a ruggedness, almost 
a harshness, which destroys all parallel; and 
the beautiful lines of Lord Byron, which 
run on a similar vein of description, are 
wanting in the naif, inexpressible sim- 
plcity of this passage, as for instance: — 

" 'Tis sweet to hear 
At midnight o'er the blue and moonlit deep 
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier," &c. 

Page 81, Note 143. — The word owrie, 
used as it is in this instance, mny have two 
interpretations, or may be saddled with both 
constructions siraultaiieously. Refer also to 
the glossary. In general, as applied to cattle, 
or to domestic animals, it signifies such 
KS are left abroad during the winter instead 
of being brought home to the pens, or sheds 



I of the homestead. Added to this, the word 
owrie is also used in the souse of that 
pinched, wretched, shivering, drooping, ap- 
pearance which cattle sometimes present in 
wet and cold weather. 

Page 81, Note 144. — The word silly k 

not here to be understood in its offensive 

sense. It is very commonly used by the 

Scotch, and occurs very frequently in the 

poems of Burns, as a term of affection and 

pity. 

I Page 82, Note 145. — It must be borne 

' in mind, that throughout the portraiture of 

I the Cotter, there is an evident affectionaie 

I tracing of the character, situation, &c., of 

I the poet's own father — an acceptation which 

I adds much poignancy to many of its 

passages. 

Page 83, Note 146. — It is a peculiar 
feature of the Scottish minstrelsy that it 
abounds in dialogues between man and wife. 
To the labours of Mr. Pinkerton, in his 
earnest and successful pursuit of remote 
Scottish literary productions, we are in- 
debted for a multiplicity of parallel passages 
in the songs, as well as amongst the un- 
polished attempts at comic dramatic writing. 
The salient point of these pieces, is the in- 
variable triumph of the " better half" in 
the contest, in the course of which as many 
I caustic things have been said, as may con- 
veniently be crammed into a brief conver- 
sation. 

Page 83, Note 147. — ^The subjoined ex- 
tracts may be cited as illustrations of the 
question. First let us detail the romance of 
a Scottish song of the early part of the 
eighteenth Century. We have a Highland 
lail wooing a Lowland lass to fly with hi in to 
the Highlands, and share his fare and fortune. 
The scene is on the banks of a most beauti- 
ful stream (Ettric banks), in the calm and 
stillness of a summer's evening-, and the ex- 
ordium of the tale runs as foU'j.vs : — 

" On Ettrick banks, one summer's night 

At gloaniing when the sheep drove hame^ 
I met my lassie, braw and tight. 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane « 
My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck ; 
And kissed and clasped her here fu' 'ang ; — 

My words they were ua mony feck." 

In another of these pieces we have the 
heroine lamenting o'er the sweet recollectioni 
of the trysting place, and raptured hour. 
The coinp*ison of the love scene with the 
present, which quickens the vivid recollection, 
is most apparent in the contrast between the 
two subjoined stanzas : — 




iliiiiniiiiiihiiiniiiiii 




LIFE OF BURNS. 



47« 



How blytlie, each morn, was I to see 

JI; swain come o'er the hill ; 
He skipt the burn, and flew to me : — 
I met him wi' guid will. 

• • « • 

Oh ! the broom, — the bonnie, boniiie broom. 

The Broom of Cowden-Knowes ! 
I wi;;h I were with my dear Swain, 
With hk pipe, and my ewes. 
Page 83, Note 148.— That the dramatic 
form of writing characterises the productions 
of an early, or. what amounts to the same 
thing', of a rude sta^e of society, may be 
illustrated by a reference to the most ancient 
compositions that we know of, the Hebrew 
Scriptures, and the writings of Homer. The 
form of dialo!n;p is adopted in the old 
Scottish ballads, even in narration, whenever 
the situations described become interesting. 
This sometimes produces a very striking 
effect, of which an instiuice may be given 
from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a com- 
position, apparently, of the sixteenth century. 
The story of the ballad is shortly this : — The 
Castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, 
is attacked by the robber Edom o' Gordon, 
The lady stands on her defence, beats off the 
assailants, and woimds Gordon, who, in his 
rage, orders the castle to be set on tire. 
That his orders are carried into effect, we 
learn from the expostulation of the lady, who 
is represented as standing on the battlements, 
and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is 
iuterrupted : — 

" Oh then bespake her little son. 
Sate on his nonrice knee ; 
Says, ' iMither dear, sri' owre this house, 

For the reek it smithers me.' 
*I wad gie a' my gowd, my chil&, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ane blast o' the westlin wind. 
To blaw the reek frae thee.' " 
The circumstantiality of the Scottish love- 
songs, and the dramatic form which prevails 
80 generally in them, probably arises from 
their being the descendants and successors 
of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
modern song of Mary of Castle-Cary, the 
dramatic form has a very happy effect. The 
same may be said of Donald and Flora, and 
Come under my Pladdie, by the same author. 
Mr. MacnieL 

Page 84, Note 149.— Mrs. Barbauld 
has fallen into an error in this respect. In 
her prefatory address to the works of Collins, 
speaking of the natural objects that may be 
employed to give interest to "the descrip- 
tion of ,)assion, she observes : — " They 
present an inexhaustible variety, from the 



Song of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, 
and cinnamon, to the Gentle Shepherd ol 
Ramsay, whose damsels carry their ndlking- 
pails througU the frosts and snows of their 
less genial, but not less pastoral country." 
The damsels of Ramsay do not walk in the 
midst of frost and snow. Almost all the 
scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in 
the open air, amidst beautiful natural 
objects, and at the most genial season of the 
year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with 
a prefatory description to assure us of this. 
The fault of the climate of Britain is 
not, that it does not afford us the beauties 
of summer, but that the season of such 
beauties is comparatively short, and even 
uncertain. There are days and nights, even 
in the northern division of the island, 
which ecjual, or perhaps surpass, what are to 
be found in the latitude of Sicily, or of 
Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote his ex- 
quisite Ode to May, felt the charm as well 
as the transientness of these happy days :— 

" Salve fugacis gloria seculi. 
Salve secunda digna dies nota. 
Salve vetustie vitse imago, 
Et specimen venientis Mvi I 

Page 86, Note 150. — Those who, primed 
with the statistics of Sir Join: Sinclair, at- 
tnb\ite the expatriation of the Scotch to a 
disproportion between the numerical aggre- 
gates of the sexes, seem to consider the 
number stated in round figures above, as 
inadequate. The latter proposition is easily 
granted, but the current joke against 
Sawney, seems to allege some more probab'e 
and prevailing cause for the spontaneous 
expatriation in question. He has en- 
terprise, and requires a broader field, 
and, above all, more ample resources ; and 
those of his own country would be limited 
but for the adjunct of the sister realm. 
Whether, or not, the beautiful song of 
Burns : — 

" Their groves of sweet myrtle," 
be addressed to these wandering fellow 
countrymen, I am fully prepared to 
admit its excellence, and the probability 
that it will be read with as much admiration 
by others. 

Page 89, Note 151. — This was in reply 
to a report which had come to the ears of Dr. 
Currie, to the effect that a violent hurricane, 
which actually levelled a portion of the 
cottage, occurred simultaneously with the 
birth of Burns. 

Page 90, Note 152.— This was Mr 
Peter Ewart, of Manchester, a friend of Dr 
Currie' s. 



«76 



ADDITIONAL NOTfe TO THE 



Page 95, Note 153. — The household 
iffects of Mrp. Burns were sold by public 
tuction OF. the 10th and 11th of April, and 
from the anxiety of tlie public to possess 
relics of this interesting!; household, brought 
uucoinmonly high sums. According to the 
Dumfries Courier, " the auctioneer com- 
menced with small articles, and when he 
came to a broken copper coffee-pot, there were 
80 many bidders, that tlie price paid exceeded 
twenty-fold the intrinsic value. A tea-kettle 
of the same metal succeeded, and reached 
£2 sterling. Of the linens, a table-cloth, 
marked 1792, which, speaking conunercially, 
may be worth half-a-ero\vn or live shdiings, 
was knocked down at £5. 73. Many other 
articles commanded handsome prices, and 
the older and plainer the furniture, the better 
it sold. The rusty iron top of a shower- 
bath, which Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, sent 
to the poet when afflicted with rheumatism, 
wa«) bought by a Carlisle geutlcmau for 



£1. 8s. ; and a low wooden kitchen chair, on 
which the late Mrs. Burns sat when nursing 
her children, was run up to £3. 7s. The 
crystal (tnd china were much coveted, and 
brought, in most cases, splendid jtrices. 
Even an olil feniler reached a tigure wl.icn 
would go far to buy half-a-dozen new ones, 
and everything towards the close attracted 
notice, down to grey-beards, bottles, anil a 
half-worn pair of bellows. The poet's eight- 
day clock, made by a Mauchline artist, at- 
tracted great attention, from the circumstance 
that it had frequently been wound up by his 
own hand. In a few seconds it was bid up 
to fifteen pounds or guiueas, and was finally 
disposed of for £35. Tiie purchaser ha<l a 
hard battle to fight; but hia spirit was good, 
and his purse obviously not a light one, and 
tiie story ran that he had instructed Mr. 
Richardson to secure a i)refereuce aX, f>nv 
sum uuder £(iO." 



SlJiJiitiannl Idote, 



RELATINO TO THE BACHELOR'S CLUB, AT TARBOLTON. 



RULES AND REGULATIONS. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton 
tvery fourth Monday night, when a question 
■>\\ any subject shall be proposed, disputed 
points of religion only excepted, in the 
manner hereafter directed , which question 
is to be debated in the club, each member 
taking whatever side he thinks proper. 

2nd. When the club is met, the president, 
or, he failing, some one of the members, till 
he come, shall take his seat ; tiien the other 
members shall seat themselves ; those who 
are for one side of the question, on the pre- 
sident's right hand ; and those who are for 
the other side, on bis left — which of them 
shall have the right hand, is to be determined 
by the president. The president and four 
of the members being present, shall have 
power to transact any ordinary part of the 
society's business. 

3rd. The club met and seated, the presi- 
dent shall read t'le question out of the club's 
book of records (which book is always to be 



kept by the president) ; then the two mem- 
bers nearest the president shall cast lots who 
of them shall speak first, and, according as 
the lot shall iletermine, the member nearest 
the president on that side shall deliver his 
opinion, and the member nearest on the other 
side shall reply to iiim ; then the second 
member of the side that spoke lirst ; then 
the second member of the side that spoke 
second — and so on to the end of the com- 
pany ; but if there be fewer members on the 
one side than ou the other, when all the 
members of tlie least side have spoken ac- 
cording to their places, any of them, as they 
please among themselves, may reply to the 
remaining members of the opposite side ; 
when both sides have spoken, the president 
shall give his opinion, after which, they may 
go over it a second or more times, and so 
continue the question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the 
choice of a question for the subject of thft 
next night's meeting. The president shall 
first nropose oue, and auy other member whii 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



477 



thooses may propose more qiiestioiis , and 
whatever one of tliem is most aj^reeable to 
the majority of the members, sliall be the 
subjcet of debate next chib-nigiit. . 

5 th. The chib sliall, lastly, elect a new 
president for the next meetini;; the president 
shall lirst name one, then any of the club 
may name another, and whoever of them 
has the majority of votes shall be duly elected 
—allowing the president the tirst vote, and 
the casting vote upon a par, but none other. 
Then, after a general toast to the mistresses 
of the club, they shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversa- 
tion carried on during the time of debate, 
nor sliall any member interrupt another 
while he is speaking, under the penalty of a 
fciirimarid from the president for the lirst 
fault, doubling his share of the reckoning 
for the second, trebling it for the third, and 
80 on in proportion for every other fault ; 
provided always, however, that any member 
may ^pvnk at any time after leave asked and 
given by the president. All swearing and 
profane language, and particularly all obscene 
and indecent conversation, is strictl'y pro- 
hibited, under the same penalty, as aforesaid, 
ui the first clause of this article. 

7tli. No member, on any pretence what- 
•ver, shall mention any of the club's affairs 
to any other person but a brother member, 
under the pain of being excluded ; and, par- 
ticularly, if any member shall reveal any of 
the speeches or affairs of tlie club, with a 
view to ridicule or laugli fct any ef the rest 
of tl'.e members, he shall be for ever exeom- 
nanicated from the society ; and the rest of 
tbe meiuberi uc tiesired, aa much es jpossible. 



to avoid and have no commun.;:atiiiQ vith 
him as a friend or comrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the 
meetings, without he can give a piTiper 
excuse for not attending ; and it is desired 
that every one who cannot attend, will send 
his excuse with some other member; and he 
who shall be absent throe meetings, without 
sending such excuse, shall be summoned to 
tlie club-night, when, if he fail to appear, or 
send an excuse, he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of mora 
than sixteen members, all bachelors, belong- 
ing to the parish of Tarbolton ; except a 
brother-member marry, and in that case he 
may be continued, if the majority of the 
club think proper. No person shall be ad- 
mitted a meuLber of this society, without 
the unaniinons consent of the club; and any 
member may withdraw from the club alto- 
gether, by giving a notice to the president 
in writing of his departure. 

10th. Every man proper for a member ot 
this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart ; above any thing dirty or mean ; and 
must be a profe.ssed lover of one or more of 
the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited 
person, who looks upon himself as superior 
to the rest of the club, and especially no 
mean-spirited, worldly mortal, whose only 
will is to heap up money, shall upon any 
pretence whatever, be admitted. In short, 
the proper person for this society is, a cheer- 
ful, honest-hearted lad, who, if he has a 
friend that is true, and a mistress that is 
kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to 
make botli ends meet, is just ta httppy aa 
thia world caa make lain 




iiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



-tA/V/» 



Ss-^ 



iiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiTiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiii 




3f5att3 to tjie '\km5 af Uurm 



Paqb 101, NoTR 1.— According to Gil- 
bert Hums, this poem may l)e "dated an- 
teriorly to 1784. The subjoined is his 
account of the circumstance of which these 
hues are a faithful record : — 

" Robert had, partly by way of frolic, 
bought ail ewe and two Kimlis from a neigh- 
bour, and slie was tethered in a lield ad- 
joining llie house at Loclilee. He and I 
were going out with our teams, and our two 
younger brothers to drive for us, at midday, 
when Hugh Wilson (the Hiighoc of the 
poem, who was a neighbouring farmer's 
herd-mate), a curious looking, awivward l>oy, 
clad in phiiding, came to us, with much 
nuiiety in his face, with the information that 
the ewe had entangled herself iu the tether, 
and was lying in the ditch. Robert was 
much ticlded with llughoc's appearance and 
postures on the occasion. Poor iMaibe was 
Bet to rights, and when we returned from the 
plough, in the evening, he repeated to me 
her death and dying words, pretty much iu 
the way they now stand." 

I'.^GE 102, Note 2. — This Davie \yas ]\Ir. 
L'avid J^illar, of whom we have had occasion 
to speak as a brother rhymester of Burns's. 
He was one of the intimates of tiie Batche- 
i^Hlr'8 Club, at Tarboltou, to which he had 
been introduced in 1781. In his subsequent 
i-'.u ?er he became connected with the borough 
of Irvine, lirst as a teacher, and afterwartis 
as a baihe ; and he survive<l to the advanced 
age of seventy years. He died on the 2iid 
of IMay, 18o0. 

Page 102, Note S. — A quotati^-n from 
Allan Ramsay. 



Pack 102, Note 4.— The tolerntod 
beggar was a species of travelling historian, 
traditionist, bard, or jester, according to the 
humour o. his respective audiences, and he 
was e.\pected to earn the bounty of hia 
hearers by entertaining them. 

Pa(5E 1015, Note 5. — Meg (or more 
properly, INlargaret Orr, of whom Burns 
speaks so familiarly) was nursery maid in the 
establishment of Mrs Stewart, of Stair. Iu 
SiUar's visits to his Meg, he was not un- 
frequently accompanied by Bums, who 
would sujiply verses for the songs of other 
female servants ; some of these accidentally 
fell, in manuscript, into the hands of Mrs. 
Stewart, who was so struck with their 
beauty, that she desired that, upon his next 
visit, the author should be presented to her. 
lie was accordingly introduced, and Mrs. 
Stewart is nunibercil amongst the first 
friends whom Burns's genius had secured 
amongst those of superior rank. 

Page 103, Note 6. — This^ poem may 
he dated, according to Gilbert Burns, to 
whom it was lirst repeated, iu the winter of 
1781-5. 

Page 104, Note 7. — The original manu. 
script affords the subjoiued version of these 
lines :— 

" Lang syne in Eden's happy scene. 
When strapping Adam's days were green 
And Eve was like my boniiie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin', sweet, y oung, handsome quean, 
O' guiless heart." 

Page 100, Note 8.--The aithor'a owa 



POEMS OF BUENS. 



479 



r .tos have been apivended to fclie references 
tluoiighout this poem, not but that the 
spells of this cliaracteristic festival are now 
very generally understood. — " It is thought 
to he a night when all the supcrhuniau 
beings who people space, and earth and air, 
in search of mischief, revel at midnight — 
and it is also a grand anniversary of the 
(iiore beneficent tribe of fairies, whose occu- 
pation is to balfle each evil genius in his 
wicke 1 pnriuit. — R. B. 

Pack lUG, Notk 9. — Certain little, ro- 
mantic, rocky, green hills in the neighbour- 
hood of the ancient seat of the Earl of 
Cassilis — R. B. 

Pack 106, Note 10. — A. noted cavern 
near Colean House, called the Cave of 
Colean, which, as well as Cassilis Downans, 
is famed in country story as the haunt of 
fairies.— R. B. 

Pagi>; 106, Note 11.— The heads of the 
race of Bruce were Earls of Carrick. — -R. B. 

Page 106, Note 12.— The first cere- 
mony of Halloween is, pulling each a slock 
or plant of kail. They nn;st go out hand 
in hand with eyes shut, and pull the tir.st 
they meet with : its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size 
and shape of the grand object of all their 
spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, 
or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, 
or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, or 
beart of the stem, is indicative of the 
natural temper or disposition. Iiastly, the 
stems, or as they are called, the runts, 
are placed above the cornice of the door ; 
and the Christian names of those whom 
chance brings into the house, are, according 
to the order in which the runts were placed, 
the riumes in question. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 13.— They go to the 
barn yard, and pull each, at three several 
times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk 
wants a top pickle, or grain at the top of the 
stalk, the lady will be wedded, but not a 
maid.— R. B. 

Page 106, Note 14. — When the corn 



Page 106, Note 16. — '^Vhoever would, 
with success, try this spell, must strictly 
observe these directions :— Steal out, all 
alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into 
the pot a clue of blue yam ; wind it in a 
cine olf the old one, and, towards the latter 
end something will hold the thread ; de- 
mand "wha bauds?" tliat is, who holds? 
An answer will be returned from tlie kiln- 
pot, by naming the Christian and our- 
iiaine of your future .spouse. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 17. — Take a candle, 
and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple 
before it, and some traditions say, you 
should comb your hair all the time; the 
face of your ci>njugal companion, to be, wil' 
be seen in the glass, as if peeping over ycoi 
shoulder. 

Page 107, Note 28.— Steal out, unper 
ceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, 
harrowing it with any thing you can con- 
veniently draw after you. Repeat, now and 
then, " Hemp seed I saw thee ; heinp-sced 
I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be 
my true love, come after me and pou thee." 
Look over your left shoulder, and you will 
see the appearance of the person invoked, 
in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some 
traditions say, "Come after me, and shaw 
thee," that is, show thyself: in which case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harroisr- 
ing, and say, " Come after me, and harrow 
thee."— R. B. 

Page 107, Note 19. — This charm must 
hkewise be performed unperceived and 
alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking thein off the hinges, if possi- 
ble ; for there is danger that the being about 
to appear may shut the doors, and do you 
some mischief. Then take that instrument 
used in winnowing the corn, which, in our 
country dialect, we call a wecht ; and go 
through all the attitudes of letting down 
corn against the wind. Repeat it three 
times, and the third time, an apparition will 
pass through the barn, in at the windy 
door, and out at the other, having both the 



b ui n doubtful state, by being too green or | figure in question, and the a[)|)earance or 



wet, the stackbuilder, by means of u\d tim 
her, &c., makes a large apartment in his 
stack, with an opening in the side which is 
fairest exposed to the wind ; this he calls a 
fause-house.— R. B. 

Page 106, Note 15. — Burning the nuts 
is a famous charm. They name the lad 
a\id lass to each particular nut, as they lay 
them in the lire, and accordingly as they 
burn quietly together, or start from beside 
one another, the course and issue of the 
"lourtship will be. — R. B. 



42 



retinue, marking the employment or station 
in life.— R. B. 

Page 107, Note 20. — Take an oppor- 
tunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, 
and fathom it three times round. The last 
fathom of the last time, you will catch in 
your arms the appearance of your future 
conjugal yoke-fellow. — R. B. 

Page 107. Note 21. — You go out, on* 
or more, for this is a social spell, to a siouth 
running spring or rivulet, where "tbre* 
laird's lands meet," and dip your left shirt. 



tso 



NOTES TO THE 



rfeeva. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and 
hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 
Lie awake ; and some time near midnight, 
an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
^and object in (piestion, will come and turn 
the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of 
it.— R. B. 

Page 1 OS, Note 22. — Take three dishes: 
put clean water in one, foul water in an- 
other, leave the third empty : blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where 
the dishes are ranged ; he (or she) dips the 
left hand — if by chance in the clean water, 
the future husband or wife will come to the 
bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, 
a widow ; if in the empty dish, it fortells 
with equal certainty, no marriage at 
all. It is repeated three times, and 
every time the arrangement of the dishes 
is altered. — R. B. 

Page 108, Note 23. — Sowens, with 
butter instead of milk to them, is always 
the Halloween supper. — R. B. 

Page 108, Note 24. — Burns has omitted, 
amongst the other ceremonies of Halloween, 
that of ducking for apples in tubs of water. 
Few of those of which the poet has fur- 
nished particulars, are now observed. The 
lottery of dishes, the pulling kail stalks, and 
the ducking for apples, comprising the 
whole, or nearly the whole, of the frolic- 
§ome enchantments now it common obser- 
vance. 

Page 109, Note 25.— The author of a 
song beginning thus, (Joha Lapraik, of 
Dalfram, near Muirkirk) : — 

" When I upon thy bosom leaii. 

And fondly ca' thee a' my ain ; 
I glory in the sacred tie 

That made us ane, wha ance were twain." 

This song was siuig at one of those merry 
meetings, called rockim/s, from the rock, or 
distaff, which was the invariable accompani- 
ment of the female guests. 

Page 110, Note 26. — A festivity which 
took place on the road by Burns's farm, at 
Mossgiel. 

Page 111, Note 27. — ^William Simpson 
has accomplished some very passable poetry, 
Amongst which is an elegy on the Emperor 
Paul. He was first the teacher at Ochiltree, 
ftnd afterwards engaged in the same capa- 
city at New Cumnock. 

Page 113, Note 28. — Hornbook's career 
seems to hav •, borne out his claim to some 
more elevated occupation than the ownership 
of a shop of all wares, the duties of an 
ibscure dispenser, or those of a wretched 
parish schoolmaster. Such were his occupa- 



tions at Tarbolton, where first he was engaged 
as a teacher. He subsequently stocked ■ 
small store of grocery and general (vares, to 
which, after some poring over medical books, 
he also added the drugs in more ordinary 
demand. This last acquisition was of the more 
consequence, as there was no medical man in 
thi place; and Hornbook having started up 
into a medical authority, pompously paraded 
his knowledge and skill at a Mason meeting 
at Tarbolton, in the presence of Burns, and 
thus suggested this poem. Hornbook sub- 
sequently settled in Glasgow, and outlived 
the poet nearly half a century. 

Page 113, Note 29.— AVillie's Mill waa 
the name of a mill just out of the village o£ 
Tarbolton, on the road to Mossgiel, and on 
a small stream called the Faile. It was 
occupied by Mr. 'William Muir, an intimate 
friend of the Burns's, and one of the sub- 
scribers to the first Edinburgh Edition of 
Robert's Poems. 

Page 113, Note 30. — Buchan's well- 
known work on Domestic Medicine. 

Page 114, Note 31. — The Grave-digger. 

Page 114, Note 32.— (Misprinted U.) 
This poem was probably suggested by 
Fergusson's Hallow Fair of Ediiihun/h, 
although it is rather constructed after the 
model of the same poet's Leith Races. 
The ceremonial of rural communion, as 
it has been till very recently, or still is 
observed in some parts of Scotland, furnishes 
the incidents of the poem. 

Page 115, Note 33.— The popular name 
of a poor crazy girl, who was in the habit of 
running for wagers. 

Page 115, Note 34. — This was an exqui- 
site hit at the preaching of Moodie, who 
was fond of holding forth the terrors of the 
law. In the first, or Kilmarnock edition, 
this word was printed salvation, which, as 
applied to Moodie, was comparatively tame. 
Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, is said to have 
suggested the correction. Moodie was the 
minister of Riccarton. 

Page 115, Note 35. — The minister of 
Galston, ^ho also figures in the KirVt 
Alarm, under the name of Irvine-side. This 
person was subsequently better known as 
a preacher by the name of Dr. George 
Smith. 

Page 116, Note 36. — Dr. William 
Peebles, then the Rev. Mr. W. Peebles, who 
was minister of Newton upon- Ayr, and who 
also figures in the Kirk's Alarm, as having 
been prominent in the persecution of Dr. 
McGill. 

Page 116, Note 37. — D? Mackenzie, 
afterwards minister at Irvine, but at Mi 







POEMS OF BURNS. 



4S1 



period ofMaueWine, who is thus intreduced 
in allusion to a pamphlet, in exposition of 
some village controversy which he had pro- 
mul.irated under the title of Common Sense. 

Page 116, Note '68. — The name of a 
street at Mauchline. 

Page 116, Note 39.— This Mr. Miller 
was subsequently minister at Kilmaur's, and 
a little portly person he was. 

Page 116, Note 40.— The Rev. John 
Russell, who also figures in the Twa Herds. 
He subsequently became minister at Stirling, 
but was at this period attached to the chapel 
of eise at Kilmarnock. 

Page 116, Note 41. — Expression bor- 
rowed from the subjoined passage iu 
Uamlet. 

" I could a tale unfold — 
Would harrow up thy soul ; freese thy young 

blood ; 
Make thine eyes like stars start from their 

spberes ; 
Thy knotty and combined locks to part ; 
A nd each particular hair to stand on end, 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine." 

Page 117 Note 42. — The ultra ortho- 
doxy of the newly-appointed minister of the 
parucliial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of 
April, 1786, and the consequent triumph of 
' the Auld Lhjhls over the Moderates, elicited 
the bitter irony of this poem. 

Page 117, Note 43. — An allusion to the 
chief occui)ation of the people of Kilmar- 
nock, in the manufacture of leather and 
woollen goods, carpets and articles of this 
nature. 

Page 117, Note 44.— The landlord of a 
tavern near the parish church. 

Page 117, Note 45. — This passage refers 
to a satirical ballad, circulatsd upon the iii- 
d'.ctioii of the Rev. Mr. Lindsay, as minister 
of *^he parochial church. 

Page 117, Note 46. — See Genesis chap, 
ix, V. 22. 

Page 117, Note 47. — See Numbers 
chap. XXV, V. 8. 

Page 117, Note 48. — See Exodus 
chai). IV, V. 25. 

Page 117, Note 49.— The Rev. Mr. 
Rob;'rtson was the colleague of the new 
minister; b:-i not of the ultra-orthodox 
Knk party. 

Page 117, Note 50. — Netherton was 
the name of a quarter of the town of Kil- 
m.trnock. 

Pagl; 117, Note 51. — ITie predecessor 
of the new minister. 

Page if 7, Note 52. — The person here 
alluded to is apparently unknown to all 
II 



those who have made local researchea 
respecting Burns and his poems. One 
commentator supposes it to be an allusion 
to the author of the Essau on Truth. Tins, 
however, is mere hypothesis. 

Page 118, Note 53. — In the west nf 
Scotland, the term Neio Light is a popu- 
lar designation of the opinions promulgated 
by Ur. Taylor and his partisans. 

Page 118, Note 54.— James Smith was 
formerly a shopkeeper at Mauchline ; subse- 
quently, a calico printer, at Avon, near 
Linlithgow ; and lastly, an emigrant to tite 
West Indies, where he died. 

Page 119, Note 55. — The authenticity 
of this poem has been very erroneously 
doubted. It was written by Burus in 17S5, 
but was not published in his own editions, 
probably, because he had retained no copy of 
it, clearly not that he thought it unworthy 
of him. In 1801, this piece appeared in a 
small volume, published at Glasgow, by 
jNIessrs. Brash and Reid, under the unpre- 
tending title of Poems ascribed to Robert 
Burns. All the more recent authorities 
have been convinced of its authenticity, 
which, iu fact, appears to be incontestibly 
established by its style ; and Mr. Chambers 
has furnished some particulars respecting 
the incident to wliich it is attributable. Th« 
folk)\ving is the anecdote : — 

"It is understood to have been founded 
on the poet's observation of an actual scene 
which one night met his eye, when, in cooi- 
paiiy with his friends John Richmond and 
James Smith, he dropped accidentally, at a 
late hour, into a very humble hostelry in 
Mauchline, the landlady of which was a 
Mrs. Gibson, more familiarly named Poosie 
Nancy. After witnessing much jollity 
amongst a company, who, by day, appeared 
abroad as miserable beggars, the three 
young men came away. Burns professing to 
have been greatly delighted with the scene, 
but, particularly with the gleesome beliaviour 
of an old maimed soldier. In the course of 
a few days, he recited a part of the poeui to 
Richmond, who has informed the present 
editor, that, to the best of his recollection, it 
contained, in its original complete foi!f,~, 
songs by a sweep and a sailor, which do not 
now appear. The landlady of the house 
was mother to Racer Jess, alluded to in the 
Holy Fair, and her house was at the left baud 
side of the opening of the Cowr/ate, mentioned 
ill the same poem, and opposite to the churcn. 
An account of the house, the characters who 
frequented it, and the scenes which used to 
take place in it, is given in Chambers's Edin- 
huryh Joa.'iial, No 2. A lithographic faa 



182 



NOTES TO THE 



mtnile of the original manuscript of the Jolly 
Beyr/ars has been published." 

Sir Walter Scott, with some taint of a 
pruJcry, which accasionally exposed him to 
the charge of affectation, has, however, been 
liberal enough in his remarks on this poem, 
to attach a defence to his own censure. 
Subjoined is his own criticism totidem 
verbis : — 

" In one or two passages of the Jolly 
Bef/i/firs, the muse has slightly trespassed 
on decorum, where, in the language of Scot- 
tish 80Ug, 

' High kilted was she. 
As siie gaed ower the lea.* 

Something, however, is to be allowed to the 
nature of the subject, and something to the 
education of the poet : and if from veneration 
to tlie names of Swift and Dryden, we tolerate 
the grossness of the one and the indelicacy 
of the other, the respect due to that of Burns 
may surely claim indulgence for a few light 
Btrokes of broad humour." 

Page 119, Note 56. — An allusion to the 
large wooden dish or platter, carried by men- 
dicants in Scotland, to receive any contribu- 
tions of broken food. 

P.\GE 120, Note 57.— The heights of 
Abraham, on the land side of Quebec, on 
which the English army under General 
Wolfe, succeeded in giving battle to the 
enemy ; and where the general fell, mortally 
wounded, at the moment of victory, in Sep- 
tember, 1759. 

Page, 120, Note 58.— El Morro, the 
castle which defends the entrance to the 
harbour of Havannah, in the island of Cuba. 
In 1762, tins castle was stormed and taken 
by the British, after which, the Havannah 
was surrendered, with spoil to the value of 
three millions. 

Page 120, Note 59. — "The destruction 
of the Spanish floating batteries during the 
famous siege of Gibraltar, in 1782 — on 
which occasion the gallant Captain Curtis ren- 
dered the most signal service — is the heroic 
exploit here referred to." — Motherwell. 

Page 120, Note 60. — George Augustus 
Elliot, created Lord Heathfield for his adrai- 
rible defence of Gibraltar, during a siege of 
'tree years. Born 1717, died 1790. 

Page 122, Note 61. — The whisky made 
at the distillery of that name in Clackmua- 
nanshire, and famous tliroughout the country 
for its superiority. 

Page 123, Note 62.— Several of the 

Eoeras were produced for the purpose of 
ringing forward some favourite sentiment 
■f the author. He used to remark to me. 



that he could not well conceive a mure mot 
tifying picture of human life, than a man 
seeking work. In casting about in his mine 
how this sentiment might be brought for- 
ward, the elegy, Man was made to mourn, 
was composed. — Gilbert Burns. 

The metre is adopted from an old ballad 
known by tlie name of the Life and Acje of 
Man, and of which the subjoined are th« 
initiatory lines : — 

" Upon the sixteen hunder year. 

Of God and tifty-tliree, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writnigs testitie ; 
On January the sixteenth day. 

As I did lie alone. 
With many a sigh and sob did say. 

Ah ! Man is made to moan." 

That the moral of this ballad had made a 
deep impression upon the mind of Burns, is 
evident from the following passage extracted 
from one of his letters to Jlrs. Dunlap : — 

" I had an old grand-uncle with whom my 
mother lived while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died ; during which time, his 
happiest moments and his highest enjoyment 
were, when he sat down and cried, whilst 
my mother would sit down and sing the 
simple old ballad, The Life and Ar/e of Man. 

We are indebted to the compiler of the 
Land of Burns, for the following interesting 
anecdote in illustration of this poem : — 

"Close beside the end of Barskimming 
old bridge, stands a neat, small house, in- 
habited, at the time to which this anecdote 
relates, by an old man named Kemp, and his 
daughter. The old man, not originally pos- 
sessed of the best of tempers, was rendered 
peevish and querulous by disease, and in con- 
sequence of slight paralysis, generally sup- 
ported himself on two sticks. His daughter 
Kate, however, a trim trig, lass, was one of the 
leading belles of the district, and, as such, had 
attracted a share of the attentions of Robert 
Burns. One evening the poet had come 
from Mauchline to see Kate; but, on arriving 
at the house, he found the old man at tha 
door in a more than usually peevish mood, 
and was informed by him that the cow was 
lost, and that Kate had gone in quest 
of her, but she had been so long away 
he was afraid she was lost too. The poet, 
leaving the old man, crossed the bridge, 
and at the further end he met the miller 
of Barskimming mill, then a young man 
about his own age, whom he accosted thus : 
' Weel, miller what are you doing here ^ ' 
' Na, Robin,' said the miller, ' I should pa» 



iiiniiifflffiiiiiniiimniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir;iiiiiiiiiiin.~jaiiHitiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiriiHifiiiirniiiiititiiiitiiiim 



POEMS OP BURNS. 



483 



,nat qi/estion t) yon, for I am it hame 
md ye're no.' ' Why/ said Kobin, ' I 
earn doun to see Kate Hemp. ' ' 1 was 
just gaun the same gate,' said the miller. 
' Then ye need gang nae farther,' said 
Burns, 'for baith she and the cow's lost, 
and the auld man is perfectly wud at the 
wan- o' them. But come, we'll tak a turn 
or two in the holm till we see if she cast up.' 
They accordingly went into the holm, and 
during the first two rounds they made, 
the poet chatted freely, but subsequently 
got more and more taciturn, and, durnig the 
last two rounds, spoke not a word. On 
reaching the stile that led from the place, he 
abruptly bade the miller good night, and 
walked rapidly towards Mauchline. Next 
time the miller and he met, he said, ' Miller, 
I owe you an apology for my silence during 
GUI last walk together, and for leaving you 
so abruptly.' ' Oh, oh ! ' said he, ' Robin, 
there is no occasion, for I supposed some 
subject had occurred to you, and that you 
were thinking, and perhaps composing some- 
thing on it.' 'You were quite right, miller,' 
said Burns, ' and I will now read you what 
was chiefly the work of that evening.' " 

I'he compogition he read was Man was 
made to Mourn ! 

Page 124, Note 63. — Tliia exquisite 
poem was actually composed at the plough- 
tail, and suggested by an incident winch 
occurred to the poet whilst at work. Bums 
was handling the plough, and John Blane, 
one of the farm servants (who many years 
since remembered the incident), was driving, 
at the same time holding in his hand the 
pattle or pettle (a small wooden spud with 
which the ploughshare was scraped at the 
commencement of every fresh furrow), when 
sudilenly a mouse started from the furrow, 
and was running across the field, closely 
pursued by Blane, pattle in hand, who had 
started in chase. Burns, however, called his 
driver back, and very calmly asked him 
" What hurt the mouse had done him, that 
he should wish to kill it." From that 
moment Burns remained moody and silent 
during the rest of the day, and woke Blane 
at night (for they were bed-fellows), to 
repeat to him the lines which the incident of 
the day had suggested. 

Page 124, Note 64. — Duan is the term 
(analogous to strophe, fytte, &c.) applied by 
Ossian to the divisions of rambling poems. 

Page 124, Note 65. — Curtiiuj is a very 
boisterous game, played upon the ice, when 
Bufficiently strong, and which consists in the 
truudhng of flattened, smoothed round stones. 
The pla} ers are divided iato sides. 



Page 124, Note 66.— The parloui of the 
farm-house of Mossgiel, namely, tlie only 
apartment besides the kitchen. This liti.e 
apartment still exists in the state in which 
it was when the poet described it as tha 
scene of his vision of Coila. " Though in 
every respc-t humble, and partly occupied by 
fixed beds, it does not appear uncomfortable 
Every consideration, however, sinks beneath 
the one intense feeling, that here, ^vithin 
these four walls, warmed at this little fire- 
place, and lighted by this little window (it 
has but one), lived one of the most extraor- 
dinary men ; here wrote some of the most 
celebrated poems of modern times."— 
C/ifimhers's Journal, No. 93. 

Page 125, Note 67. — The charter of ttei 
borough of Ayr bears date as early as the 
beginning of the thirteenth century. 

Page 125, Note 68.— The illustrious 
family of Wallace. 

Page 125, Note 69. — Alluding to the 
great William Wallace, the hero of Scottish 
independence. 

Page 125, Note 70. — Adam Wallace, of 
Richardton, cousin to William Wallace. 

Page 125, Note 71. — The Laird of 
Craigie, also, of the family of Wallace, who 
held the second command at the battle 
fought in 1448, on the banks of Sark, and 
gained by the Scottish troops, under 
IJouglas, Earl of Orinond, and W^alUice, 
Laird of Craigie ; and in which the desperate 
valour, and masterly skill of the latter, were 
chiefly instrumental in securing the victory. 
The Laird of Craigie was mortally wounded 
in the engagement. 

Page 125, Note 72.— The shade of tho 
supposed Coilus, King of the Picts, who, 
according to tradition, was buried close to 
the seat of Montgomeries, of Coilsfield, 
beneath a small mound crowned with trees. 
On the 29th of May, 1837, this mound was 
excavated in search of remains, and two 
urns were found, which so far corroborated 
the tradition, that the mound was ascer- 
tained to have actually held the remains of 
some illustrious chiefs. 

Page 125, Note 73. — Alluding to Bar- 
skimming, the seat of Sir Thomas Millar, at 
that time Lord Justice Clerk, and siuoa 
President of the Court of Session. 

Page 125, Note 74. — This stanza refers 
to Catrine, the seat of Dugald Stewart (and 
formerly of his father, the Rev. Dr. Matthew 
Stewart), and which is situated on the bauka 
of the river Ayr. 

Page 125, Note 75. — Alluding to the 

two successive possessors of Catrine, Dr. 

I Matthew, and his sou, Dugald Stewart ; th« 



42' 








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-^^rrm^W 



'iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! 



t8* 



NOTES TO THE 



first eajhant for his mathematicnl attain- 
meiif, tlie second for his elegant philosophical 
writins;s. 

Page 125, Note 76.— Colonel Fullarton. 

Page 126, Note 77. — Coila (the muse of 
Burns) had been s<ia:gested to the promoter 
of her fabulous existence, by the equally 
visionary personagje, who tigures under the 
name of Scotu in Mr. A. Koss's poem. The 
Fortunate Sheplifnless. 

Page 126, Note 78. — Mossgiel, which 
has since become the property of Mr. 
Alexander, of Ballochmyle, was then amonsist 
the possessions of the Earls of Loudon, that 
is, of the Loudou branch of the race of 
Campbell. 

Page 127, Note 79. — Towards the close 
of the year 1785, loud complaints were made 
by the Scottish distillers respecting the 
vexatious and oppressive manner in which 
the Excise laws were enforced at their 
establishments — such rigour, they said, being 
exercised at the instination of the London 
distillers, who looked with jealousy on the 
success of their northern brethren. So great 
was the severity of the Excise, that nuuiy 
distillers were obliged to abandon the trade, 
and the price of barley was beginning to be 
affected. Illicit distillation was also found 
to be alarmingly on the increase. In conse- 
quence of the earnest remonstrances of the 
distillers, backed by the county gentlemen, 
an Act was passed in the session of 1786, 
(alluded to by the author), whereby the 
duties on low wines, spirits, &c., were dis- 
continued, and an annual tax imposed on 
stills, according to their capacity. This act 
gave general satisfaction. It seems to have 
been during the general outcry against fiscal 
oppression at the end of 1785, or beginning 
of 1786, that the poem was composed. 

Page 127, Note SO. — William I'itt, who 
in his twenty-second year was at the head of 
an administratiou,'^aad controlling the fix- 
chequer. 

Page 127, Note 81.— Hugh Mont- 
ponu'ry, of Coilstield, afterwards twelfth 
Earl of Egliuton, at that time J\I.P. for 
Ayrshire, and w ho had served in the army 
during the American war. 

Page 127, Note 82. — James Bosweli, 
well known to the party politicians of .\yr- 
•hire, as one of the orators of their meetings, 
but better known to the world at large as 
the s/iadotn and biographer of Dr. Johnson. 

Page li/. Note 83. — George Dempster, 
of Dunnichen, in the county of Forfar, an 
eminent Scottish Whig representative, of the 
age of Fox and Pitt He connneuced his 
larliomeutary career in 1762, and closed it 



in 1790, after having sat in five 8Hcee«ding 
parliaments. Every patriotic and liberal 
scheme had the support of this excellent 
man, who died in 1S18, at the age of 
eighty-two. 

P.\ge 127, Note 84.— Sir Adam Fer- 
gusson, of Kilkerran, Bart, lie had several 
times represented Ayrshire, but at present 
was member for the city of Edinburgh. 

Page 127, Note 85. — The Marquis of 
Graham, eldest son of the Duke of .Mont- 
rose, lie afterwards became the third Duke 
of Montrose, and died in 1836. 

Page 127, Note 86— The Right lion. 
Henry Dundas, Treasurer of the Navy, and 
M.P. for Edinburghshire, afterwards Viscount 
Melville. 

Page 128, Note 87.— Probably Thoraaa 
Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskuie; but ha 
was not then in Parliament. 

Page 128, Note 88.— Lord Frederick 
Campbell, second brother of tlie Duke of 
Argyle, Lord Registrar of Scotlaiul, and M.P 
for the county of Argyle in this, and the 
one preceding, and the two subsequent Par- 
liaments. 

Page 128, Note 89.— Hay Campbell, 
Lord Advocate of Scotland, who afterwards 
became President of the Court of Session, 
and survived to an advanced age. He was 
at this period ]\1.P. for the burghs compre- 
hended within the limits of Glasgow, lie 
died in 1823. 

Page 128, Note 90. — This stanza was 
suppressed in all the editions which Burns 
himself superintended ^^hilst in press, out of 
respect for the Montgomery, whose clumsy 
oratory he could not help ridiculing. 

Page 128, Note 91.— Mr. Pitt's father, 
the Earl of Chatham, was the second son of 
Kobert Pitt, of Boconnock, in the county of 
Cornwall. 

Page 128, Note 92. — "Scones made 
from a mixture of oats, peas, or beans, with 
wheat or barley, ground fine, and denomi- 
nated mashliiiii, are in general use, and form 
a wholesome and palatable food." — Xcio 
^tiitistical Account of Scotland, pariah Oj 
Dalri/, Ayrshire. 

Page 128, Note 93.— A worthy old 
hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where 
he sometimes studies politics over a glass of 
guid aidd Scotch drink. Nanse's story was 
different. On seeing the poem, she declared 
that the poet had never been but once or 
twice iu her house. 

Page 128, Note 94.— Tlic young Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer had gained some 
credit by a measure introduced in 178-1 for 
preventing smuggling of tea bj reducing the 



POEMS OF BDENS. 



4«1 



duty, ths revenue bting eompensated by a 
iax on vtiiidowi. 

I'agk 129, Note 95. — The model which 
Burns iullowed in liiis poem is evidently the 
Cauler Water of Fergusson. The poet's 
luuii^iuiition is evidently more concerned in 
tlip bacchanalian rant, than his actual pre- 
dilection ; for it does not transpire that he 
was more especially devoted to Bacchus or 
his compeers, tlian the majority of his 
associates or contemporaries. 

r.vGii 129, Note 96. — The vuljrar name 
of beer being repudiated, and the more re- 
fined cojjnomen of " a/e " being substituted 
for such decoctions of malt as grace the 
tables of the great in silver tankards. 

Face 129, Note 97.— An allusion to the 
favourite draught of beer after a mess of 
porridge. 

Page 129, Note 98. — An allusion to the 
crowding of the congregation round the 
moveable pulpits out of doors, as was 
actually the case at s parochial distributioa 
of the sacrament. 

I'AGE 130, Note 99.— Tlie Scottish Par- 
liament passed an Act in the year 1()9(), 
empowering Forbes of Culloden to distil 
nlnsky free of duty, on his manor of 
Ferintosh, of Cromartyshire, in consideration 
of his services, and of the losses which he 
had susUiincd in the public service at the 
period of the Revolution. The immense 
wealth to which such an immunity opened 
the way, gradually stimulated the successors 
of the Forbes to the distillation of so im- 
mense a quantity of the spirit, that by 
degrees Fcrialosh became a bye-word signi- 
fying whisky. This privilege was abolished 
by the Act of the British parliament, passed 
in 1785, and which regulated the Scotch dis- 
tilleries in general. But a jirovision was 
reserved in that act to the elfcct that the 
Lords of the Treasury should indemnify the 
present proprietor of the barony for the 
immense deterioration of his estate, and that 
if the Lords of the Treasury should fail to 
settle the matter fairly, it should be sub- 
mitted to a jury in the Scottish Court of 
E.Kcheq\ier. Accordingly, afterfntiletttempts 
at redress from the Treasury, Mr. Duncan 
Forbes prosecuted his claim, proving that the 
right had actually prod\iced £1000 a year to 
his family, and misfit have been productive of 
seven times as much ; and the jury awarded 
him the substantial sum of £21,580 as com- 
pensation, on the 29th of November, 1785. 

P.\GE 130, Note 100. — A preacher of 
very gei.eral popularity amongst the poorer 
classes. 

Vaob 130. Noi'B 101. — A preacher not 



much admired by the people ^enprally, but 
received as an oracle by the select few who 
were his partisans. Robertson was out o( 
health at the time these lines were written. 

Page 131, Note 102. — Killie, a populai 
1-: familiar designation amongst the country 
people, meainng Kilmarnock. 

Page 131, Note 103 — Thomas Samson, i 
nurseryman, at Kilmatnock, was one amongst 
the earliest friends of Burns. lie was 
devoted to sporting. Supposing one of hia 
seasons to be his last in pursuit of game, he 
had expressed a desire to die, and to be 
buried in the Muirs, and this suggested to 
Burns the elegy and epitaph. At his death 
he was buried in Kilmarnock Churchyardj 
and at the western extremity of the church 
is a plain monumental slab, with the inscrip- 
tion: — Thomas Samson, 

Died the 12th of December, 1795, 

Aged 72 years. 

"Tarn Samson's weel-worn clay here lies}*" 

&c., &e., 
in the identical words with which Burns had 
humorously provided him. 

Pacje 132, Note 104— Mr. Aiken was 
one of the first persons moving in the higher 
orders of society, who noticed the remark- 
able talents of Robert Burns, and whose 
patronage and countenance upheld the poet, 
and promoted the success of his subsequently 
brilliant career. He was somewhat di.stiu- 
guished amongst his professional colleaguea 
(being a lawyer), for the superior inteliec- 
tnal qualifications which he possessed, and 
amongst his friends for the unaffected gene- 
rosity of his character. He died on the 
24th of March, 1807. 

Page 132, Note 105. — "Several of the 
poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward s(mie favourite sentiment 
of the autiior. He had frequently remarked 
to me, that he thought there was something 
peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Let U3 
worship God,' used by a decent sober head 
of a famdy introducing family worship. To 
this sentiment of the author, the world is 
indebted for the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
The hint of the plan, and title of the 
poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's 
Ingle." — Gilbert Burns. "The house- 
hold of the virtuous William Burness was 
the scene of the poem, and William himself 
was the saint, and father and husband, ol 
this truly sacred drama." — CuNNiNGn.\M. 

Page 134, Note 106.— See Pope's Wind- 
sor Forest. 

Page 134, Notk 107. — This poem is 
another remarkable instance of the fertility 
-)f genius which so strikingly characterised 




(I>. 




48'^ 



NOTES TO THE 



the miise of Hums Like the lines to a tnoiise, 
it is elicited by the simplest and most trivial 
occurrence, and, nevertheless, is wrought up 
to a profound de;;ree of thouj^ht and senti- 
ment, whicli the utmost sublimity of scenery 
could barely have excelled. 

Page 135, Note 108.— The friend fo 
wli im this poem is addressed, was Mr. 
Andrew Aiken, the son of Mr. Aiken, of 
Ayr, to whom the Cutter's Saturday Nujlit 
is dedicated, and who had been taught by 
bis father to venerate tlie genius and charac- 
ter of his lowly but iUnstrious fellow-country- 
man. Mr. Andrew Aiken survived fifty years 
after Burns, and died at St. Pctersburgh, 
after a very successful mercantile career into 
which he had early embarked at Liverpool. 

Page 136, Note 109. — The first person 
of respectable rank and good education who 
took any notice of Burns, was Mr. Gavin 
Hamilton, writer in Mauchline, from whom 
he took his farm of Mossgiel on a sub-lease. 
Mr. Hamilton lived in what is still called the 
Castle of Mauchline, a half-fortified old 
mansion near the church, forming the only 
remains of the ancient priory. He was the 
son of a gentleman who had practised the 
same profession in the same place, and was 
in every respect a most estimable member of 
society — generous, afl'able, and humane. 
Unfortunately his religious practice did not 
square with the notions of the then njinis- 
tcr of Mauchline, the Daddy Auld of 
Burns, who, in 1785, is found in the session 
records to have summoned him for rebuke, 
ou the four following charges : — 1. Unne- 
cessary absence from church, for five conse- 
cutive Sundays (apparently the result of 
some dispute about a poor's rate) ; 2. Setting 
out on a journey to Carrick on a Sunday ; 
3. Habitual, if not total neglect of family 
worship ; 4. Writing an abusive letter to 
the session, in reference to some of their 
former proceedings respecting him. Strange 
though this prosecution may seem, it was 
atrictly accordant with the rigl\t assumed by 
the Scottish clergy at that period, to inquire 
into the private habits of parishioners ; and 
as it is universally allowed that Mr. Auld's 
designs in the matter were purely religious, 
it is impossible to speaV of it disrespectfully. 
It was imfortuTiately, however, mixed up 
with some personal motives in the members 
of the session, which were so apparent to 
the Presbytery, to which Mr. Hamilton 
appealed, that that reverend body ordered 
the proceedings to be stopped, and all notice 
of them expunged from the records. A 
description of the sufferings of the Mauch- 
Uue S«38ioa. wliile orator Aiken was exposing 



them before the Pnesbytery, is to be found in 

Iluly W'dlie's Prayer. Partly from antipathy 
to the high orthodox party, but more from 
friendship for Mr. Hamilton, whom he re- 
garded as a worthy and enlightened iiau, 
persecuted by narrow-witted bigots. Burns 
threw his partisan muse into the quarrel, 
and produced several poems, that just men- 
tioned amongst the rest, in which it is but 
too apparent that religion itself suffers in 
common with those whom he holds up u 
abusing it. 

Page 137, Note 110. — On reading m 
the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with 
the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the 
author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he 
imagined himself transported to the birth- 
day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made 
the address conveyed in these lines. — R. B. 
[The Poet Laureate of the time bemg was 
Thomas Warton, and the subjoined are the 
opening lines of the ode of which Burns 
became the quaint commentator in the 
dream: — 

"When Freedom nursed her native fire 

In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre, 

Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's brow 

The tinsel gifts of flattery tore ; 
But paid to guiltless power their willing vow; 

And to thethrone of virtuous kings, &c.,&c." 

Vapid enough, it must be confessed.] 

Page 138, Note 111. — Gait, gett, or 
gyte, a homely substitute for the word child 
in Scotland. 

Page 138, Note 112.— When the vote of 
naval supplies was under discussion in the 
session of 1786, several modifications of the 
management of our naval armaments were 
hotly agitated by a Captain Mc Bride and 
his adherents. Amongst other projects, the 
abandonment of 64-gun ships was proposed 
by him. 

Page 138, Note 113.— Charles James 
Fox. 

Page 138, Note 114. — In this rcspe(-t 
Burns has followed the account of the 
chronicles, adopted as it had subsequently 
been by SliaKespeare, in speaking of 
Henry V., as mingling in the wildest frolics 
of his companions; Prince //aZ was clearly 
of such habits in his younger days, if we 
may trust the anecdotes in which his j\ist 
punishment, by authority, reflected credit 
on a worthy and impartial judge. But, 
according to the memoirist Tyler, these 
were uotiiing better than a tissue of ingenious 
fables. However I'.lns may be. Burns only 
adopted a degree of licence, which th« 
greatest British Poet had cousiiered liiia- 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



49/ 



self free to Use when the traditions were yet 
more positive on the subject. 

Page 138, Note 115. — A humorous 
hit at Frederick, Duke of York (the second 
•on of George III.), wliose carUer career had 
been spent in Ecclesiastical vocations, as 
Bisliop of Osnaburg. 

Page 138, Note 116.— William Henry, 
afterwards Duke of Clarence, and finally 
King, by the name of William IV., whose 
profession was the navy. 

Page 138, Note 117. — An allnsion to 
the current tale of some youthful intrigue of 
the royal sailor. 

Pace 132, Note 118.— "Tlie tale of the 
Twa Dogs was composed after the resolution 
of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 
a dog, which he called Luath, that was a 
great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by the wanton cruelty of some person, 
tiic night before my father's death. Robert 
said to me that he should like to confer 
such an immortality as he could bestow ou 
his old Friend Luath, and that he had a 
great mind to introduce something into the 
book under the title of Stanzas to the 
Memory of a Quadruped Friend ; but this 
plan was given up for the poeiu as it now 
Btands. Ca;sar was merely the creature of the 
poet's imagination, created for the purpose 
of holdnig chat with his favourite Luath." 
■ — Gilbert Burns. Allan Cunningham 
mentions that John Wilson, printer, Kd- 
niarnock, on undertaking the first edition of 
the poems, suggested the propriety of 
placing a piece of a grave nature at the 
beginning, and that Burns, acting on the 
hint, composed or completed the Twa Dogs 
in walking home to Jlossgiel. Its exact date 
is fixed at February 1780, by a letter of the 
poet to John Richmond. 

Page 139, Note 119. — Kyle, the native 
province of the poet, is supposed to derive 
its name from Coilus, a real or supposed 
king of the Picts, alluded to in the notes to 
the rixion. Recent antiquaries are disposed 
to deduce the appellative from quite a dif- 
ferent source, from choUlie, to wit, signifying 
in the Celtic tongue a w(iody regiou. Upon 
the whole, the popular etymology appears 
the more rational. 

Page 139, Notf 120 — CuchuUin's dog 
in Ossiau's Fingal. 

Page 141, Note 121. — In the early part 
Oi 1786, when the friends of his Jean forced 
her to break the nuptial engagement into 
which he had clandestinely entereil with her, 
and took legal steps to force liim .o find 
security for the maintenance of hcj expec- 
t'Mi offspring — in this dismal timi:, wiieu 



nothing but ruin seemed before him — our 
bard poured forth, as in the name of 
another, the following eloquent effusion o' 
indignation and grief. 

PAGii 142, Note 122. — Allusion is her* 
made to Jliss Eliza Burnet, the henuty 
of her day in Edinburgh — daughter of tlia 
eccentric scholar and philosopher, Ijord 
Slonboddo. Burns was several times en- 
tertained by his lordship at his house in St 
John Street, Canongate, where the lady 
presided. He speaks of her in a letter in 
the following terms : — " There has not beeu 
any thing nearly like her, in all tlie combi- 
nations of beauty, grace, and goodness, th£ 
great Creator has formed, since Miltun'ii 
Eve on the first day of her existence." It 
may be curious to learn what was thought of 
this lovely woman by a man of a very diti'er- 
eut sort from Burns — namely, Hugh Chis- 
holm, one of the seven broken men (usually 
called robbers) who kept Prince Charles in 
their cave in Inverness-shire for several 
weeks, during his hidings, resistuig the 
temptation of thirty thousand pounds to 
give him up. This man, when far advanced 
in life, was brought on a visit to Ediuburgli, 
where it was remarked he would never allow 
any one to shake his right hand, that 
member having beeu rendered sacred in his 
estimation, by tlie grasp of the Prin?e. 
Being taken to sup at Lord Monboddo's, 
old Hugh sat most of the time gazing ab- 
stractedly on ^liss Burnet, and being asked 
afterwards what he thought of her, he ex- 
claimed, in a burst of liis eloquent native 
tiiugue, which can be but poorly rendered in 
English, " She is the finest annual 1 ever 
beheld." Yet an enviously minute inquirer, 
in the letter-press accompanying the reprint 
of Kaifs Portraits, states that she had one 
blemish, though one not apt to be obsc-ved 
— bad teeth. She died, in 1790, of con- 
sumption, at the age of twenty-five, and the 
poet wrote an elegy upon her. — Chambers. 

Page 143, Note 123.— An hostelry of 
high repute throughout the neighboiuhood, 
situated at the Auld Brig End. 

Page 143, Note 124. — This clock, as well 
as the tower or steeple in which it stood, iia* 
been removed for some years. The steeple 
was formerly attached to the old gaol of 
Ayr. 

Page 143, Notk 125.— The ancient 
Wallace Tower, which fell into a dangerous 
state of repair, was ultimately pulled down, 
and replaced by a new Towev, which is still 
known by the same name. The Old Wallace 
Tower was au incongruous building, par- 
faking of the rude commixture of sevfa-J 



488 



NOTES TO THE 



styles of archrtectuTe, and froia it rose a 
slender spire, which, though, by no means in 
2xact keeping with the basement, certainly 
contributed to the picturesque aspect of the 
building. The new tower stands upon the 
same foundation in the High Street of Ayr. 

Page 143, Note 126— The falcon, or as 
it is commonly called, the Goshawk. Tlie 
imagery of this passage is as beautiful as 
the expression. 

Page l-i'i, Note 127. — A well-known 
ford in the River, immediately above the 
Auld Brig. 

Page 143, Note 12S.— Generally, as the 
rapid enlightenment of the Scottish people 
has dispelled the superstitions which .("err 
wont to hang about some localities, even to 
the charm and poetical imagery with which 
such superstitions served at times to invest 
them, the spirits of Garpal Water are yet 
acknowledged to letain their supremacy, and 
the spot is as tirmly believed to be haunted 
by many of the peasants, as it was of old. 

Page 144, Note 129. — The source of the 
fiver Ayr. 

Page 144, Note 130. — A narrow land- 
ing place oa the upward side of the chief 
quay. 

Page 144, Note 131. — Mr. McLachlan 
was at that time well known, and much ad- 
mired fur his taste in the performance of 
Scottish airs on the violin. 

Page 145, Note 1">2. — A complimen- 
tary allusion to Captain Hugh Montgomery, 
otherwise called isodger lliujh by Burns, 
(who subsequently succeeded to the.Eavldo'Ti 
of Eglinton), and whose family seat of 
Coilslield is situated on the Fuile^ or Feal, a 
small stream whicli falls into the river Ayr, 
at no great distance. 

Page 145, Note 133. — In the foregoing 
notes, ou the Epistle to Davie, the intro- 
duction of Burns to Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, 
has been detailed. The present passage is a 
complimentary allusion to the same lady. 

Page 145, Note 134. — Catrine was, as 
we have already had occasion to state, the 
seat of Dr. Stewart, the father of Professor 
Dugald Stewart, to whose honour, and iu 
compliment of whom, this allusion is made. 

Page 145, Note 135. — "The Elegy on 
Captain Henderson is a tribute to the 
memory of a man I loved much." — Burns. 
Captain Henderson was a retired soldier, of 
agreeable manners, and upright character, 
who had a lodging in Carrubber's Close, 
Edinburgh, and mingled with the best so- 
ciety of the city. Jlr. Cunningham states, 
oa the authority of Sir Thomas Wallace, who 
kfiev him, that he " dined regularly at For- 



tune's Tavern, and was a member of the 

Capillaire Club, which was composed of all 
who inclined to the witty and the joyous.' 
The poem was written in Dumfriesshire^ 
in 1790. 

Page 145, Note 136. — Yearns — Eagles. 

Page 146, Note 137. — "I look on Tarn o' 
S/iaiitcr as my standard performance in the 
poetical line." — Burns. 

"When my father fewedhis little property 
near Alio way Kirk, the wall of the clinrch- 
yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free 
hberty of pasture in it. My father and two 
or three neighbours joined in an application 
to the town-council of Ayr, who were supe- 
riors of the adjoining land, for liberty to 
rebuild it, and raised by subscription a sum 
for enclosing this ancient cemetery with a 
wall : hence, he came to .consider it as his 
burial place, and we learned that reverence 
for it people generally have for the burial- 
place of their ancestors. My brother was 
living in EUisland, when Captain Grose, on 
his perigrinations through Scotland, staid 
some time at Carse-house in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, a particular friend of my brotlier's. 
The antiquary and the poet were ' unco pack 
and thick tliegither.' Robert requested of 
Captain Grose, when he should come to 
Ayrshire, tliat he would make a drawing of 
AUoway Kirk, as it was the burial-place of 
his father, where he himself had a sort of 
cl ,ini to lay down hiS bones when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him ; and 
added, by way of encouragement, that it w as 
the scene of many a good story of witclies 
and apparitions, of which he knew the cap- 
tain was very fond. The captain agreed tc 
the request, provided the poet would fur- 
nish a uitch story, to be printed along with 
it. ' Tain o' Shauter ' was produced on this 
occasion, and was first published in 
'Grose's Antiquities of Scotland."' — Gilbert 
Burns. 

It «as while spending his nineteenth sum- 
mer in the parish of Kirkoswald, iu Carrick, 
tliat the poet became acquainted with the 
ciiaracters and Circumstances afterwards in- 
troduced into Tam o' Shauter. The hero 
was an honest farmer, named Douglas Gra- 
ham, who lived at Shanter, between 
Tiiniberry and Colzean. His wife, Helen 
M'Taggart, was much addicted to supersti- 
tious beliefs. Graham, dealing much in 
malt, went to Ayr every market day, whither 
he was frequently accompanied by a shoe- 
makiug neighbour, John Davidson who 
dealt a iiiilf in leather. The two would 
oftei' lingi-.' to a late hour ui ihe tovfcrns ai 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



48S 



fiie market town. One night, when riding 
home more than usually late by himself, in a 
itorm of wind and rain, Giaham, in passing 
over Brown Carrick Hill, near tlie Bridge of 
Doon, lost his bonnet, whidi contained the 
^oney he had drawn that day at the market. 
To avoid the scolding of his wife, he imposed 
upon her credulity with a story of witches 
seen at AUoway Kirk, but did not the less 
return to the Carrick Hill, to seek for his 
m'^'hey, which he had the satisfaction to tind, 
with his bonnet, in a plantation near the 
road. Burns, hearing Graham's story told 
between jest and earnest among the smug- 
glers of the Carrick shore, retained it in his 
memory, till, at a comparatively late period 
of his career, he wove from it one of the most 
admired of his poems. Douglas Graham 
and John Davidson, the originals of Tam o' 
Shanter and Souter Joliuuie, have long 
reposed in the churchyard of Kirkosvvald, 
where the former had a handsome monu- 
ment, bearing a very pious inscription. — 
Chambers. 

Page 146, Note 138.— The village where 
a parish ch\irch is situated is usually called 
the Kirktou in Scotland. A certain Jean 
Kennedy, v ho kept a reputable public-house 
in the village of Kirkoswald, is here alluded 
to. 

Page 147, Note 139. — "AUoway Kirk, 
with its little enclosed burial ground, stands 
beside the road from Ayr to Majbole, about 
two miles from the former town. The 
church has long been roofless, but the walls 
are pretty well preserved, and it still retains 
its bell at the east end. Upon the whole, 
the spectator is struck with the idea, that 
the witches must have had a rather narrow 
stage for the performance of their revels, as 
described in the poem. The inner area is 
now divided by a partition-wall, and one part 
forms the family burial-place of Mr. Catch- 
cart, of Blairston. The ' wiunock bunker in 
v.ie east,' where sat the awful musician of the 
party, is a conspicuous feature, being a small 
window, divided by a thick mullion. Around 
the buiding are the vestiges of other open- 
ings, at any of which the hero of the tale 
may be supposed to have looked in upon the 
hellish scene. Within the last few years the 
old oaken rafters of the kirk were mostly 
entire, but they have now been entirely 
taken away, to form, in various shapes, 
memorials of a place so remarkably signal- 
ised by genius. It is necessary for those 
who survey the ground in reffvence to the 
poem, to be informed that the oid road from 
Ayr to this spot, by which Burns supposed 
his hero to have approached .AUoway Kirk, 



was considerably to the west of the present 
one, which, nevertheless, has existed since 
before the time of Burns. Upon a field 
about a quarter of a mUe to the north-west 
of the kirk, is a single tree enclosed with a 
paling, the last remnant of a group which 
covered 

' the cairn 

Where hunters faud the murdered bairn ;' 

and immediately beyond' that object ia 

' the ford. 

Where in the snaw the chapman smcord ;' 

namely, a ford over a small burn (which 
soon after joins the Doon), being two places 
which Tam o' Shanter is described as having 
passed on his solitary way. The road then 
made a sweep towards the river, and, pas- 
sing a well which trickles down into the 
Doon, where formerly stood a thorn, on 
which an individual, called in the poem 
' Mnngo's inither,' committed suicide, ap- 
proached AUoway Kirk upon the west. 
These circumstances may here appear trivial, 
but it is surprising with what interest any 
visitor to the real scene will inquire into, and 
behold every part of which can be associated, 
however remotely, with the poem of Tam 
o' S/iaiiter. The churchyard contaiiis several 
old monuments, of a very humble descrip- 
tion, marking the resting-places of undistin- 
guished persons. Among those persons rest 
William Burness, father of the poet, over 
whose grave the son had piously raised a 
small stone, recording his name and the 
date of his death, together with the short 
poetical tribute to his memory, which ia 
copied in the works of the bard. But, for 
this monument, long ago destroyed and 
carried away piecemeal, there is now sub- 
stituted one of somewhat finer proportions; 
and the churchyard of AUoway has now 
become fashionable with the dead, as well aa 
the living. Its little area is absolutely 
crowded with modern monuments, referring 
to persons, many of whom iiavc been brouglit 
from considerable distances, to take their 
rest in this doubly consecrated ground. 
Among these is one to the memory of a per- 
son named Tyrie, who, visiting the spot 
some years ago, happened to express a wish 
that he might be laid in All: way chuKih- 
yard, and, as fate wo.ild have it, was interred 
in the spot he had pointed out within a 
fortnight. Nor is this all ; for even the 
neighbouring gentry are now contending 
for departments in this fold of the departed, 
and it is probable that the elegant mausolea 
of rank and wealth wiU soon be jostUag 



m. 



NOTES TO THE 



with the stunted obelisks of humble worth 
mid noteless poverty." — Chambem's Jour- 
nal. 

Page 143, Note 140. — It is well known 
that witches, or any other evil spirits, have 
no power to follow a poor wight any further 
than the middle of the nearest running 
stream. And, at the some time, it may not 
be superfluo\is to hint to the benighted tra- 
veller, thut when he is unfortunate enough 
to fall in with the wierd sisters, orwith bogies 
on his road, — whatever be the danger of 
going forward, it is ikr less than that of 
retreat. — BtutNS. 

Page 148, Note 141. — "In ray early 
years nothing less would serve me than 
courting the tragic muse. I was, I think, 
about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched 
the outlines of a tragedy, forsooth : but the 
bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, 
which had for some time threatened us, 
prevented my farther progress. In those 
days I never wrote down any thing ; so, 
except a speech or two, the whole has es- 
caped my memory. These lines, which I 
most distinctly remember, were the exclam- 
ation from a great character — great in 
occasional instances of generosity, and dar- 
ing at times in villanies. He is supjiosed 
to meet with a child of misery, and to burst 
out into this rhapsody." — Burns. 

Page 148, Note 142. — ^" There is scarcely 
any earthly object gives me more — 1 do not 
know if 1 should call it pleasure— but some- 
thing which exalts me — something which en- 
raptures me — than to walk on the sheltered 
side of a wood or plantation, in a cloudy 
winter's day, and hear the stormy wind 
howling amongst the trees, and raving over 
the plain. It is my best season of devotion ; 
my mind is rapt up in a kind of enthusiasm 
to Him, who in the pompous language of 
the Hebrew bard, " Walks on the wings of 
the wind." In one of these seasons, just 
after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
Winter, a Dirge. — Burns. According to 
Gilbert Burns, this is one of Burns's earliest 
pieces, and he has assigned 1784 as its 
date. 

Page 148, Note 143. — A quotation from 
Young. 

Page 149, Note 144. — "There was a 
period of my life that my spirit was well nigh 
broken by repeated losses and disasters, 
which threatened, and indeed effected, the 
utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, 
was attacked by that most dreadfid dis- 
temper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melan- 
choly. In this wretched state, the recollection 
•f which makes me yet shudder, I hung my 



harp on the w.llow trees, except in «nme 
lucid intervals, in one of which I composed 
these lines." — Burns. 

Page 149, Note 145.— The "Prayer," 
and the " Stanzas," were composed when 
faulting fits, and other alarming symptoms 
of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous dis- 
order (which indeed still threatens me) first 
put nature on the alarm." — Burns. 

Page 149, Note 146. — Raisseau, is the 
French, as Burn is the Scottish, term for 
stream. Riiisseauj: is the plural of Riiisseau, 
as Burns is of Burn ; and hence the hu- 
morous translation of his own name in the 
Elegy of Robert Burns. 

Page 150, Note 147.— The Rev. James 
Steven, afterwards one of the Scotch clergy 
in London, and ultimately minister of Kil- 
winning, in Ayrshire, was the hero of this 
piece of levity. The tradition in the family 
of Mr. Gavin Hamilton is, that the poet, in 
passing to the church at Maucliline, called 
at Mr. Hamilton's, who, being conliued with 
the gout, could not accompany him, bat 
desired him, as parents do with children, to 
bring home a note of the text. At the con- 
clusion of the service, Burns called again, 
and, sitting down for a minute at Mr. 
Hamilton's business table, scribbled these 
verses, by way of a compliance with the 
request. From a memorandum by Burns 
himself, it would appear that there was a 
wager with Mr. Hamilton as to his producing 
a poem in a certain time, and that he gained 
it by producing Tlie Calf. 

Pagb 150, Note l48.— "At the time 
when Burns was beginning to exercise his 
powers as a poet, theological controversy 
raged auiongt the clergy and laity of his 
native country. The prominent points re- 
lated to the doctrines of original sin and the 
Trinity ; a scarcely subordinate one refined 
to the right of patronage. Burns took the 
moderate and liberal side, and seems to have 
delighted in doing all he could to torment 
the zealous party, who were designated as 
the Auld Lights. The first of his poetic 
offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque 
lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, which he circulated 
anonymously, and which, " with a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, 
met with roars of applause." This was the 
Twa Herds. The heroes of the piece were 
the Rev. Alexander Moodie, minister of 
Riccarton, and the Rev. John Russell, minis- 
ter of a chapel of ease, at Kilmarnock, both 
of them eminent as leaders of the Auld 
Light party. In riding home together they 
got into a warm dispute re^^rdiug soai* 




mm r-^ — ^ 



iiiM>u;,..>iii.iii;;ii;iiiiMiiui(ii;iiii 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



49: 



point of docti ine, or of discipline, which led 
•o a ruplnre that appeared nearly incurable. 
They appear to have afterwards quarrelled 
ibout a question of parish boundaries ; and 
when the point was debated in the Presby- 
tery of Irvine, in presence of a great multi- 
tude of the people (including Burns), they 
lost temper entirely, and "abused each 
other,'' says Mr. Lockliart, "with a fiery 
vehemence of personal invective such as has 
been long banished from all popular assem- 
blies, wherein the laws of courtesy are en- 
forced by those of a certain unwritten code." 
Allan Cunningham gives a popular story of 
this quarrel having ultimately come to blows; 
but if such had been the case, the poet 
would certainly have adverted to it : — 
Chambers. 

Page 150, Note 149. — Russell is de- 
scribed as a "large, robust, dark-com- 
plexioned man, imperturbably grave, fierce 
of temper, and of a stern expression of 
countenance." He preached with much ve- 
hemence, and at the height of a tremendous 
voice, which, in certain states of the atmos- 
phere, caught the ear at the distance of more 
than a mile. He subsequently became minis- 
ter at Stirling, where he died at an advanced 
age. 

Page 150, Note 150.— Dr. Robert Dun- 
can, minister of Dundonald. Excepting in 
his limbs, which were short, he bore a strong 
personal resemblance to Charles James 
Fox. 

Page 150, Note 151.— Rev. William 
Peebles, of Newton-upon-A.yr. See notes 
to Holy Fair, and Kirk's Alarm. 

Page 150, Note 152.— Rev. WiUiam 
Auld, minister of Mauchline. 

Page 150, Note 153.— Rev. Dr. Dal- 
rymple, one of the ministers of Ayr. He died 
in 1814, having enjoyed his charge for the 
uncommon period of sixty-eight years. 

Page 150, Note 154. — Rev. William 
M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, colleague 
of Dr. Dalrymple. See note to Kirk's 
Alarm. 

Page 150, Note 155.— Minister of St. 
Quivox, an enlightened man, and elegant 
preacher. He has been succeeded in the 
parish by his son. 

Page 150, Note 156. — Dr. Andrew 
Shaw, of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of 
Croylton. Dr. Andrew was a man of ex- 
cellent abilities, but extremely diffident — 
a tine speaker and an accomplished scholar. 
Dr. Dav'd, in personal respects, was a 
piodigy. He was ninety-one years of age 
before he required an assistant. At that 
;)eriod of life he read without the use of 



glasses, wrote a neat small Land, and had 
not a fun jw in his cb-iek or a wrinkle on 
his brow. He was Moderator of the General 
Assembly In 1775. He had a fine old 
clergymanh-kind of wit. In the house of a 
man of raiiK, where he spent the night, an 
alarm took place after midnight, which 
brought all tiie members of the family from 
their dormitOx-ies. The doctor encountered 
a countess in ner chemise, which occasioned 
some mutual confusion. At breakfast next 
morning, a lady asked him what lie thought 
when he met the countess in the lobby. 
" Oh, my lady," said he, " I was in a trance." 
Trance in Scotland signifies a passage or 
vestibule, as well as a swoon. This amiable 
man died, Aprd 26, 1810, in the ninety- 
second year of his age, and sixty-first of 
his ministry. 

Page 150, Note 157. — There were three 
brothers of this name, descended from the 
church historian, and all ministers — one at 
Eastwood, their ancestor's charge, the second 
at Stevenston, and the third. Dr. Peter 
Woodrow, at Tarbolton. Dr. Peter is the 
person named in the poem. The assistant 
and successor, mentioned in the verse, was 
M'IMath, elsewhere alluded to. 

Page 151, Note 158.— The Rev. Mr, 
(afterwards Dr.) Smith, who figures in the 
Holy Fair as one of the tent preachers. 

Page 151, Note 159. — The hero of this 
daring exposition of Calvanistic theology, 
was William Fisher, a farmer in the neigh- 
bourhood of Mauchline, and an elder in Mr 
Auld's session. He had signalised himself 
in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, else- 
where alluded to ; and Burns appears to 
have wricten these verses in retribution of 
the rancour he had displayed on that occasion. 
Fisher was, probably, a poor narrow-witted 
creature, with just sufficient sense to make a 
show of sanctity. When removed to another 
parish, and there acting as an elder, he was 
found guilty of some peculations in the funds 
of the poor^to which Burns alludes in the 
Kirk's Alarm. Ultimately, coming home 
one night from market in a cart, in a state 
of intoxication, he fell from the vehicle, and 
was found lifeless in a ditch next morning. 

Page 151, Note 160. — These essays 
were published in exposition of the doctrines 
of Dr. Mc GUI, so violently persecuted by 
the heroes of orthodoxy. 

Page 152, Note 161.— Dr. Taylor of 
Norwich, whose doctrines were advocated by 
Goudie and McGill. 

Page 152, Note 162. — A hearty partisan 
of the heterodox theological school, remark- 
able amongst liis fellow-farmers of thi 



43 




^^iS 




492 



NOTES TO THE 



ne!.irhbonrhood, as a jolly companion and 
humorous, though somewhat coarse satirist 
of the orthodox heroes. He occupied a farm 
called Adam hill, near Tarbolton. 

Page 152, Note 163. — "A certain humo- 
rous dream of his was then making some 
noise in the country-side." — Burns. Mr. 
Cunningham gives the following account of 
the dream — " Lord K,, it is said, was in the 
practice of calling all his familiar acquaint- 
ances brutes. ' Well, ye brute, how are ye 
to-day ? ' was his usual mode of salutation. 
Once in company, his lordship, having 
indulged in this rudeness more than his 
wont, turned to Rankiue and exclaimed, 
'Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer 
Bly story to tell us ? ' 'I have nae story,' 
said Rankiiie ; ' but last night I had an odd 
dream.' ' Out with it, by all means,' said 
the other. 'Aweel, ye see,' said Rankine, 'I 
dreamed I was dead, and that for keepnig 
other than gude company on earth, I was 
sent down stairs. When I knocked at the 
low door, wha should open it but the deil ; 
he was in a rough humour, and said, ' 'Wha 
may ye be, and what's your name ? ' ' Jly 
naiiie,' quoth I, ' is John Rankine, and my 
d\\ tiling-place was Adam-hill.' ' Gae wa' 
wi' ye,' quoth Satan, ' ye canna be here ; 
ye're ane o' Lord K.'s brutes — hell's fou o' 
them already.' " This sharp rebuke, it is said, 
polished for the future his lordship's speech. 

Page 152, Note 164. — Some occurrence 
is evidently here alluded to. We have 
heard the following account of it, but cannot 
vouch for its correctness : — A noted zealot 
of the opposite party (the name of Holy 
Willie has been mentioned, but more 
probaljly, from the context, the individual 
must have been a clergyman), calling on Mr. 
Rankiue on business, the latter invited him 
to take a glass. With much entreaty, the 
visitor was prevailed on to make a very 
small modicum of toddy. The stranger 
remarking that the liquor proved very strong, 
Mr. Rankine pointed out, as any other land- 
lord would have done, that a little more hot 
water might improve it. The kettle was 
accordingly resorted to, but still the liquor 
appeared over-potent. Agaiu he filled up. 
Still no dimunition of strength. All this 
t.nie he was sipping and sipping. By and 
bye, the liquor began to appear only too 
weak. To cut short a tale, the reluctaut 
puest ended by tumbling dead-drunk on the 
floor. The trick played upon him, requires, 
of course, no explanation. — Chamber.s. 

Page 152, Note 165. — An allusion to 
«ome song which had been promised by John 
'SUukiue to Burns. i 



Page 152, Note 166.— This epistle was 
first published by Lapraik himself amongst 
his own works. 

Page 153, Note 167. — A* that time 
enjoying the appointment of assistant and 
successor to the Rev. Peter Woodrow, ministei 
of Tarbolton. He S'as an excellent preacher, 
and a decided moderate. He enjoyed the 
friendship of the Montgomeries of Coilsiield, 
and of Burns ; but unhappily fell into low 
spirits, in consequence of his dependent 
situation, and became dissipated. After 
being for some time tutor to a family in the 
Western Isles, it is said that this unfortunate 
man ultimately enlisted as a common soldier. 

Page 153, Note 168. — Gawn, Gawin, 
Gavin. Alluding to Gavin Hamilton. 

Page 151, Note 169. — All the allusions 
contained in this poem are of such a nature 
and refer to such public events as will be 
readily understood : and there is something 
exceedingly humorous in the exposition of 
the views and remarks of the • peasantry 
respecting the great leaders, or great events, 
which happen to become matters of noto- 
riety. 

Page 154, Note 170. — An allusion to 
the unanticipated return of a considerable 
majority of Scottish members in support of 
AVilliam Pitt, upon the election incidental to 
the opening of his administration. 

Page 150, Note 171. — An incident 
which actually occurred, and which was 
witnessed by Burns, at Mauchline, in Decem- 
ber 1785. 

Page 156, Note 172. — ^Lunardi Bonnet. 
The fashions in those days, as in these, were 
apt to receive denominations from persona 
or events which had created general sen- 
sation. In our time we have our Kossuth, 
or Klapka hats and the like. Lunardi had 
made several balloon ascents during the 
summer of 1785, in Scotland, and as these 
excited much interest at the time, Lnnar- 
di's name was suwant les regies, appended to 
various articles of dress, and to bonnets 
amongst others. 

Page 156, Note 173.— In May 1785, 
Mr. Pitt made a considerable addition to the 
number of taxed articles, amongst which 
were female servants, in order to liquidate 
ten millions of unfunded debt. The poem 
seems to have been called forth by the 
receipt of the next annual mandate from 
Mr. Aiken, of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for 
the district. 

Page 156, Note 174.— The off for« 
horse, or leader, in the plough. 

Page 156, Note 175.- -The off draught 
horse in the plough. 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



49. 



Paoe 156, Note 176.- -The familiar ex- 
pression for Kilmarnock, a,T\ongat the pea- 
santry. 

Page 15S, Note 177. — The near wheel 
horse in the plough. 

Page 157 Note 178.— An allnsion to 
one of thu questions (namely " Wliat is 
tffectual calling ? ") in the Catechism pro- 
pounded by the Westminster Assembly of 
Divines, and which continues to preserve its 
currency throughout Scotland. 

Page 157, Note 179. — A child born to 
the poet by a servant girl of the name of 
Elizabeth Paton. She grew up exceedingly 
like her father, and became the wife of Mr. 
John Bishop, overseer at Polkerainet in Liu- 
lithgowshire, and died there, Dec. 8, 1817. 

Page 157, Note ISO.— Tootie lived in 
IMauchline, and dealt in cows. The age of 
these animals is marked by rings on their 
horns, which may of course be cut aifd 
polished off, so as to cause the cow to 
appear younger than it is. This villainy is 
called snech-drawing, and he who perpetrates 
it is a sneck-drawer. 

Page 157. Note 181. — The airless — 
earnest money. (See also Glossary.) 

Page 157, Note 182. — A w/:ter in Ayr, I 
and particuhir friend of the poet, Mr. Chal- 
mers, asked Burns to write a poetic epistle in 
his behalf to a young lady whom he ad- | 
mired. Burns, who had seen the lady, but 
was scarcely acquainted with her, complied 
by penning tlie above. — Chambers. 

Page 185, Note 183. — "These verses, in 
the handwriting of Burns, are copied from 
a, bank note, in the possession of 'Sir. James 
F. Gracie, of Dumfries. The note is of the 
Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back 
as 1st March 1780. The lines exhibit the 
strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, 
»nd are evidently an extempore effusion 
of his characteristic feelings. They bear 
internal proof of their having been written 
at that interesting period of his lif*, when 
ii'.e was on the point of leaving the country 
on account of the unfavourable manner in 
which his proposals for marrying his ' bonny 
Jean ' (his future wife) were at tirst received 
by her parents." — Motherwell. 

Page 1,38, Note 184. — There is some 
doubt as to the authenticity of tliese pretty 
lines. It has been averred upon very good 
authority that the manuscript in the hamd 
writing of Robert Burns, is yet extant, and 

in the possession of Mr. A . At any 

rate, as the verses are not unworthy of the 
bard of Ayr, they may be accepted. They 
were first published at Liverpool, in a peri- 
odical called the Kaleidoscope. 



Page 158, Note 185. — ^Tliese verset 
appear to have been written in the distress- 
ing summer of 178(J, wlien the poet's pros- 
pects were at the dreariest, and the verj 
wife of his fondest affections had forsaken 
him. From the time, and other circum- 
stances, we may conjecture that tlie 
present alkuled to was a copy of the Kd- 
marnock edition of poems, then newly pub- 
lished. The verses appeared in the 
Sun newspaper, April 1823. — Cham- 
bers. 

Page 153, Note 186.— "Tlie first time 
Robert heard the spinuet played upon, was 
at the house of Dr. Laurie, minister of Lou- 
don (about October 1786). Dr. L. had 
several daughters — one of them played ; the 
frttlier and the mother led down the dance ; 
the rest of the sisters, the brother, the ])oet, 
and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a 
delightful family scen^ for our poet, then 
lately introduced to the world. His mind 
was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the 
stanzas were left in the room where he 
slept." — Gilbert Burns. Dr. Laurie was 
the medium through which Dr. Bladdock 
transmitted the letter, by which Burns wa« 
arrested on his flight to the West Indies, 
and induced to go to Edinburgh. This 
letter has since been in the possession of the 
Rev, Jlr. Balfour Graham, minister of North 
Berwick, who is connected with the family 
by marriage. Dr. Laurie, and his son, who 
was his successor in the pastoral charge of 
the parish, are both deceased. 

Page 159, Note 187.— Diogenes. 

Page 159, Note 188. — This meeting 
took place, October 23, 1786, at Catriue, the 
seat of Professor Stewart, to which Burns 
was now taken for the first time by Mr. 
Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauchhne. Lord Dacr, 
who was eldest son to Dunbar, fourth Earl 
of Selkirk, and had been a pupil of Mr. 
Stewart, was a young nobleman of the 
greatest promise. He had just returned 
from France, where lie cultivated the society 
of some of those men who afterwards figu>ed 
in the Revolution, and had contracted their 
sentiments. He was cut off in November, 
1794, leaving the succession open to his 
younger brother, the late Thomas, Earl ol 
Selkirk, distinguished by his exertions in 
the cause of emigration. — Chambers. 

Page 159, Note 189.— Major Logan, 8 
retired military officer, still remembered in 
Ayrshire for liis wit and hunicur — of which 
two specimens may be given. Asked by an 
Ayr hostess if he wo ild have water to th» 
glass of spirits she was bringing to him m 
his order, he said, with a gnu, " No, ^ woKi<i 



494 



NOTES TO THE 



rather you took tie water out o't." Visited 
on his deathbed by Mr. Cuthill, one of the 
ministers of Ayr, who remarked that it 
would take fortitude to support such suffer- 
ings as he was visited with ; " Ay." said the 
poor wit, " it would take fiftitude." At the 
time when the above letter was addressed to 
him, Major Loi;an lived at Parkhouse, in 
Ayrshire, with his mother and sister, the 
Miss Logan to whom Burns presented a copy 
of Beattie's Poems, with verses. The major 
was a capital violinist. 

Page IGO, Note 190.— With the cha- 
racteristic hnwour with which he wrote the 
elegy and epitaph of Thomas Samson and 
his own elegy. Burns wrote this address to 
himself, when he anticipated his departure 
for the \\'est Indies, and before the brilliant 
career of his reception at Edinburgh had 
fixed his views as to life. 

Page 161, Note 191. — The haggis is a 
dish peculiar to Scotland, though supposed to 
\e of French extraction. It is composed of 
minced offal of mutton, mixed with oatmeal 
and suet, atid boiled in a sheep's stomach. 
When made in Elspa's way, with " a cum 
o' spice " (see the Gentle Shepherd), it is an 
agreeable, albeit a somewhat heavy dish, 
always providing that no horror be felt at 
the idea of its preparation. The Edinburgh 
Literary Journal of "November 7, 1829, makes 
the following statement : — " About sixteen 
years ago, there resided at Mauchline a Mr. 
Robert Morrison, cabinet-maker. He was a 
great crony of Burns, and it was in Mr 
iMorrison's house that the poet usually spent 
the ' mids o' the day ' on Sunday. It was in 
this house that he wrote his celebrated Ad- 
dress to a Ilayi/is, after partakuig liberally of 
that dish, as prepared by Mrs. Morrison." 
The Ettrick Sliepherd has, on the contrary, 
averred that the poem was written in the 
house of Mr. Andrew Bruce, Castle Hill, 
Edinburgh, after in Hke manner partaking of 
the dish. It was first published in the Scots 
3J:'(/iiziiw for January 1787. 

i'AGE 162, Note 192. — Miss Logan, 
sister of Major Logan, to whom also Burns 
had previously addressed a poetical epistle. 
(Si*" antea, page 159.) 

Page 162, Note 193.— Mr. Hay Camp- 
bell, of whom we have had several occasions 
to speak as the subject of complimentary 
allusions. He was subsequently president 
of the Court of Cession, and died in 1823. 

Page 162, Note 194.— The Honourable 
Henry Erskine, whose talents as an advocate 
had secured him a distinguished reputation. 
Be died in 1817. 

PAaB 162, NoTB 195.— Mrs. Scott of 



! Wauchope, in Roxburgshin; — a lady of tast« 
and talent, and fitted to use the pencil as 
well as the pen — had addressed (February 
1787) the lines, printed in small type, to 
Burns, which called forth the ensuing verses, 
as a reply or acknowledgment. 

Page 163, Note 196.— Mr. Woods had 
been the friend of Fergusson. He was long 
a favourite actor in Edinburgh, and was him 
self a man of some poetical talent. He died 
at his house on the Terrace, Edinburgh 
December 14, 1802. 

Page 164, Note 197.— The hero of Mac- 
kenzie's Man of Feeling, of which Burns 
always spoke in such warm terms of admira- 
tion. 

Page 164, Note 198.— Written at Sel. 
kirk. May 1787, in the course of the poet's 
southern tour, Mr. Creech was the poet'» 
Edinbiirgh publisher, and seems at this tim# 
to have been in high favour with him. Buriir 
afterwards found reason considerably ta 
change his feelings towards Creech, who 
appears to have given him much uneasiness 
by protracting the settlement of their ac- 
counts. The truth is, that Mr. Creech, 
though a man of hterary talent, great plea- 
santry as a companion, and the first publisher 
of his day, had a weakness about money 
matters, and could scarcely draw upon his 
ample funds for the liquidation of an ordi- 
nary debt, without something more than all- 
coininon persuasives. He enjoyed high re- 
putation as a teller of quaint stories, and 
lived on familiar terms with many of the 
literary men of his day. His house, in one 
of the elevated floors of a tenement in the 
High Street, accessible from a wretched 
alley called Craig's Close, was frequented in 
the mornings by company of that kind, to 
such an extent that the meeting used to be 
called Creech's Leoee. Burns here enume- 
rates as attending it. Dr. James Gregory, 
author of the Conspectus Medicince ; Tytler, 
of Woodhouselee, author of the Defence of 
of Mary Q,ueen of Scots; Dr. William 
Greenfield, professor of rhetoric in the Edin- 
burgh University ; Henry Mackenzie, author 
of The Man of Feeling ; and Dugald Stewart, 
professor of moral philosophy. Mr. Creech 
more than once filled the chair of Lord Pro- 
vost of Edinburgh, and is noted as the only 
person who ever saved money off the salary 
then attached to the office. With reference 
to his penurious bachelorly habits, a native 
caricaturist once set the town in a roar by 
depicting, in connection, the respective 
kitchens of the chief magistrates of London 
and Edinburgh, the former exhibiting every 
appearance of plenty that could be expectefi 



,miiiiiiiiiii:iii!ininii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iii 




POEMS OF BURNS. 



496 



a a large and munificent establishment, and 
the latter displaying a poor old pinched 
housekeeper spinning beside a narrow fire- 
place, where the cat was perched for warmth 
upon a gathering coal. Mr. Creech died iu 
1815, aged 70 years. — Chambers. 

Page 1G4, Note 199.— Edinburgh. 

Page 164, Note 200.— The Chamber of 
Commerce of Edinburgh, of which Mr 
Creech was secretary. 

Page 165, Note 201. — James Hunter 
Blair was born at Ayr, in 1741. He pur- 
sued a successful commercial career, and be- 
came a member of the banking firm of Sir 
^A'illiam Forbes and Co., and died on the 
first of July, 1787, universally esteemed. 

Page 165, Note 202.— The Royal Park 
of Holyrood. 

Page 165, Note 203.— St. Anthony's 
Well. 

Page 165, Note 204.— St. Anthony's 
Chapel. 

Page 166, Note 205.— "The first object 
of interest that occurs upon the public road 
after leaving Blair, is a chasm in the hill on 
the right hand, through which the little river 
Bruar falls in a series of beautiful cascades. 
Formerly, the falls of the Bruar were un- 
adorned by wood; but the poet Burns, being 
conducted to see them (September 1787), 
after visiting the Duke of Athole, recom- 
mended that they should be invested with 
that necessary decoration. Accordingly, trees 
have been thickly planted along the chasm, 
and are now far advanced to maturity. 
Throughout this young forest, a walk has 
been cut, and a number of fantastic little 
grottoes erected for the conveniency of those 
who visit the spot. The river not oidy makes 
several distinct falls, but rushes on through 
1 channel, whose roughness and rugged 
sublimity adds greatly to the merits of the 
•cene, as an object of iuterest among tourists." 
— Picture of Scotland. 

Page 1(37, Note 206. — Robert Dundas 
of Arniston, elder brother of Viscount Mel- 
vjUe; born 1713, appointed president in 1760, 
and died December 13, 1787, after a short 
illness. Burns sent a copy of the poem to 
Dnndas's son, afterwards Lord Advocate and 
Lord Chief Baron, but received no answer to 
it, which he greatly resented. 

Page 168, Note 207.— Printer, Edin- 
burgh — author of the Philosophy of Natural 
History, and member of the Scottish Antiqua- 
rian Society. He died in 1795, in the fifty- 
fifth year of his age. 

Page 168, Note 208.— A chi'o to which 
Burns and Smellie belonged, and which met 
Bi Douglas's tavern in the Anchor Close. 



43* 



Edinburgh. It took ts name of Crochallan 
Feiicibles from a beautiful plaintive Highland 
air, Cro Chalein — literally Coliu's Cattle— « 
which Douglas occasionally sang with much 
effect to his guests. 

Page 168, Note 209.— William Tytler, 
Esq. of Woodhouselee (born 17 11, died 1792), 
a member of the Society of Writers to the 
Signet, had published in 1759 "An Enquiry, 
Historical and Critical, into the Evidence 
against Mary Queen of Scots," in which the 
favourable side of her case is adopted. 

Page 169, Note 210. — One of a series 
intended for a projected work, under the title 
of The Poet's Progress. These lines were 
sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter, 
to Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is 
thus noticed: — " The fragment beginning, a 
little, upright, pert, tart, &c., 1 have not 
shown to any man living, till I now send it 
to you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, 
the definition of a character, which, if it 
ajipear at all, shall be placed in a variety of 
lights. This particular part I send you, 
merely as a sample of my hand at portrait 
sketching. 

Page 169, Note 211. — For more ex- 
plicit particulars in respect of Miss Cruick- 
shank, to whom these lines are addressed, 
the reader is referred to the notes on the 
song entitled the Rosebud. 

Page 169, Note 212. — It is somewhat 
remarkable how comparatively few of the 
pieces written by Burns from this time for- 
ward have been addressed directly to " Cla- 
rinda," whose influence over him is so 
powerfully evinced in the letters (already 
mentioned in that portion of this volume 
which is devoted to the poet's coriespoii- 
dence), which passed between him and this 
fair object of admiration. In the foregoing 
notes to the life we have already had occasion 
to enter into some particulars respecting the 
career of Mrs. McLehose (Clarinda), and we 
shall have further occasion to allude to her 
hereafter, on which account great detail in 
this place would be superfluous. It should, 
however, be remarked t aat the beautiful song 
My Nannie's awa, and some others of the 
most exquisite productions of Burns, were 
dedicated to his passion for Clarinda, although 
she be not directly invoked. 

Page 170, Note 213. — An early friend 
of Burns at Kilmarnock. These lines were 
written in the year 1788, at the period when 
Burns was commencing his household and 
farming career at Ellisland. 

Page 170, Note 214.— The first of thes4 
sets of versei was written in June, and thi^ 
second in December, 1788, with reference to 



NOTES TO THE 



« hermitage in the grounds of Friars' Carse, 
near Ellisiaiid, the seat of the poet's friend, 
Captj>in Ridikl of Gleiiriddel. 

Page 171, Note 213.— Captain Riddel 
had, in the course ot poring over a news- 
paper, fallen upon some critical remarks 
respecting some production of Burns, and 
had accordingly despatched the paper to the 
poet, that he might have an opportunity of 
observing what was said of him. And it was 
in returning this paper that Burns accompa- 
nied it with the comical note in verse, 
entitled an "Extempore to Captain Riddel." 

Page 171, Note 216.— "The Mother's 
Lament was composed partly with a view to 
Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to 
the worthy patroness of my early unknown 
muse, Mrs. Stewart of Afton." — Burns. 

Page 172, Note 217. — "In January 
last (1789), on my road to Ayrshire, I had to 
put up at Bailie Wigham's in Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The frost 
Iras keen, and the grim evening and howling 
wind were ushering in a night of snow and 
drift. My horse and I were both much 
latigued with the labours of the day ; and, 
5ust as my friend the bailie and 1 were bidding 
deliauce to the storm, over a smoking bowl, 
in v.'lieels the funeral pagearitry of the late 
Mrs. Oswald ; and poor 1 am forced to brave 
sU the tTrors of the tempestuous night, and 
jade my horse— my young favourite horse, 
ffhom 1 had just christened Pegasus — farther 
on through the wildest hils and moors of 
Ayrshire to the next inn ! The powers of 
poetry and prose sank under me when I 
would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, 
that when a good fire at New Cumnock had 
«o far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat 
down and wrote the enclosed ode." — Burns. 

Page 172, Note 218. — Mr. James Ten- 
oant had been an early and constant friend 
of Robert Burns and his family, and had 
taken an active part in the selection of the 
f»rm of Ellisland for the poet. 

Page 17;5, Note 219.— Mr. Cunningham 
mentions that the poor animal whose suffer- 
ings excited this burst of indignation on the 
part of the poet, was shot by a lad named 
James Thomson, son of a farmer near Ellis- 
land. Burns, who was walking beside the 
Nith at the moment, execrated the young 
maxi, and spoke of throwing him into the 
water. 

Page 174, Note 220.— At the period at 
which this biting and well-directed rebuke 
from the pen of Burns appeared, the neigh- 
bourhood, and, in fact, the whole Scottish 
Kirk was agitated by the most violent con- 
troversy, and the Ecclesiastical Courts were 



engrossed with the persecution vindicti^t") 
instituted against Dr. William Mctniil. 
This was about the month of August, 1789. 
The original ground of this controversy, in 
which Dr. McGill was now figuring, wai 
this: — In 1786 he had published a treatise, 
entitled, A Practical Essay on the Death of 
Jesus Christ, in two Parts — I. Containiixj the 
History — 2. The Doctrine of his Death. Dr. 
McGdl was at that time one of the ministers 
of the parochial church of Ayr, and his 
treatise was alleged to be fraught with Arian 
and Sociniau doctrines, which were deemed 
injurious to the interests of the clergy. Dr. 
JMcGill thus became the butt of many at- 
tacks levelled, partly at his person and 
character, and partly at his work ; but he 
took little or no notice of any of these sal- 
lies, until a minister, who had hitherto 
been a warm and personal friend, became 
his most bitter assailant. This was Dr. 
William Peebles, of Newton-upon-Ayr, who 
in his centenary sermon, preached on the 5th 
of November, 1788, gratuitously denounced 
the treatise as heretical, and Dr. McGill as 
a person " who with one hand received the 
privileges of the church, while with the other 
he was endeavouring to plunge the keenest 
poignard into her heart." McGill published 
a defence, which led, in April, 1789, to the 
introduction of the case into the presbytorial 
court of Ayr, and subsequently into that of 
the Synod of Glasgow and Ayr. iMeanwhile, 
the public out of doors was agitating the 
question with the keenest interest, and the 
strife of the liberal and zealous parties in 
the church had reached a painful extreme. 
It was now that Burns took up the pen in 
behalf of McGill, whom, it is probable, he 
sincerely looked on as a worthy and enlight- 
ened person suffering an unworthy persecu- 
tion. The war raged, till, in April 1790, the 
case came on for trial before the Synod, when 
McGill stopped further procedure, by giving 
in a dociunent, expressive of his deep regret 
for the disquiet he had occasioned, explaining 
the challenged passages of his book, and 
declaring his adherence to the standards of 
the church on the points of doctrine in 
question. Dr. McGill died March 30th, 
1807, at the age of seventy-six, and in the 
forty-sixth year of his ministry. — AhruUjed 
from Murray's Literary History of Gcu!o- 
way. 

Page 174, Note 221.— Dr. McGill. 

Page 174, Note 222. — Uion the com. 
menceinent of the proceedings against l)i. 
JIcGill before the Synod, the municipal 
authorities of Ayr published a testimonial in 
the newspapers, averring their high esteeiB 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



491 



for the defendant, both as e, man and a 

mitiister. 

Page 174, Note 223.— Mr. John Ballan- 
tine, the Provost of the town of Ayr, wlio 
had taken an active part in the detuousira- 
tion in favour of Dr. McGill. 

Page 174, Note 224. — It was by Mr. 
Robert Aiken (the la>vyer, the friend of 
Burns, and he to whom the " Cotters' Sa- 
turday Nijrht " is dedicated) that Dr. Mc 
Gill was defended before the Synod. Mr. 
Aiken, as we have before had occasion to 
remark, was not a little distinguished for his 
eloquence as an advocate. 

Page 174, Note 225.— Dr. William Dal- 
rymple, as remarkable for his humble, modest 
dememiour, as for his superior talents and 
worth. He was senior minister to the col- 
legiate church of Ayr. 

Page 174, Note 226.— John Russell, the 
preacher, who also figures in the Holy Fair. 

Page 174, Note 227. — The Rev. James 
McKin, who figures as the hero of the 
Ordination. 

Page 174,Note 228. — Alexander Moodie, 
the minister of Riccartou, who figures also iu 
the Twa Herds. 

Page 174. Note 229.— The Rot. Mr. 
Auld, of Mauchline. 

Page 174, Note 230.— The clerk was 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, whose defence against 
the charges preferred by Mr. Auld, had 
occasioned much trouble to this clergyman. 

Page 174, Note 231.— Mr. Grant, of 
Ochiltree. 

Page 174, Note 232.— Mr. Young, of 
Cumnock. 

Page 174, Note 233.— The Rev. Dr. 
Peebles. He had excited some ridicule by 
a line in a poem on the Centenary of the 
Revolution : 

' And bound in Liberty's endearing chain." 

The poetry of this gentleman is said to have 
been indifferent. He translated tlie Bamdies 
of Cowley, which some of his brethren, 
not exactly understanding what was meant, 
took the liberty of calhng Dr. Peebles' "Daft 
Ideas." — Chambers. 

Page 174, Note 234. — "Dr. Andrew 
Mitchell, Monkton. He was so ricli as to 
be able to keep his carriage. Extreme love 
of money, and a strange confusion of ideas, 
characterised this presbyter. In his prayer 
for the royal family, he would express 
himself thus : — " Bless the King — his 
Majesty the Queen — her Majesty the Prince 
of Wales." The word chemistry he pro- 
nounced ij» three different ways — hemistry, 
ihemistry, and tchemistry — ^t never, by 

K K 



; any chance, in the right way. Notwithstand- 

1 ing the antipathy he could scarcely heip 

I feehng towards Burns, one of the poets' 

comic verses would make him laugh heartily, 

and confess that, " after all, he was a droll 

fellow." — Chambers. 

Page 174, Note 235.— Rev. Mr. Stephen 
Young, of Barr. 

Page 174, Note 236. — Rev. Mr. George 
Smith, of Galston. This gentleman is praised 
as friendly to common sense in the Holy 
Fair. The offence which was taken at that 
praise probably embittered the poet against 
him. 

Page 174, Note 237.— Mr. John Shep- 
herd, of Muirkirk. The statistical account of 
Muirkirk contributed by this gentleman to 
Sir John Sinclair's work, is above the average 
in intelligence, and very agreeably written. 
He had, however, an unfortunate habit at 
saying rude things, which he mistook for wit 
and thus laid himself open to Burns's satire 

Page 174, Note 238. — The poor eldci. 
William Fisher, whom Burns has so often 
scourged. 

Page 175, Notb 239. — Robert Heron, 
who afterwards became a well-known author 
by profession, and died in misery, in Loudon, 
in 1807. 

Page 175, Note 240.— Waited for. 

Page 175, Note 241. — This small piece, 
which was an imitation, was forwarded to 
the Star Newspaper for publication in the 
month of May, 1789; and it was in recom- 
pense for this contribution, that Burns wai 
put on the free list, and supplied with the 
paper gratuitously, which, however, he re- 
ceived very irregularly. In allusion to the 
very uncertain manner in which the paper 
was delivered to him, he addressed the sub- 
joined lines, on one occasion, to the pub- 
lisher : — 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 

For instance, your sheet, man. 

Though glad I'm to see't man, 
I get it no ane day in ten. 

Page 175, Note 242. — "Mrs. Dnnlop, 
daughter and heiress of Sir Thomas Wallace, 
of Craigie, and at this time widow of John 
Dunlop, of Dunlop, in Ayrshire, and resident 
at the last mentioned place, became ac- 
quaintei with Burns on the publication of 
his poems at Kilmarnock, and was ever after 
his steady friend. She was a woman of ex- 
cellent understanding and heart, with a con- 
siderable taste for elegant literature. She 
died in 1815, at the age of eighty-four. 



19» 



NOTES TO THE 



Page 176, 'Note 243. — Subsequently 
Major General Dunlop, of Dunlop. 

Page 176, Note 244. — Rachel^ daughter 
of Blrs. Dunlop, was engaged upon an 
ima!iiii»tive sketch of Burns's Muse, Coila. 

Page 177, Note 245. — A mare, the 
property of Mv. William Nicol, and lent by 
that gentleman to Burns, in whose keeping 
it became ill, and died at his farm, of Ellis- 
land. 

Page 178, Note 246. — This piece was 
published in a newspaper, and from that 
time forward remained unnoticed until it 
was reproduced iu Chambers's Edition of 
Burns's Works. 

Page 178, Note 247 — The parallel be- 
tween these lines and those of Johnson, as 
follow, cannot escape the reader : — 

Iu bed we laugh, in bed we cry. 
And born iu bed, in bed we die ; 
The near approach a bed may show. 
Of human bliss and human woe. 

Page 179, Note 248. — At the general 
election, 1790, the representation of the five 
boroughs of Dumfries, Annan, Kirkcud- 
bright, Sanquhar, and Lochraaben, forming 
one electoral district, was contested by Sir 
James Johnstone, of Westerhall, in the 
ministerial or Tory, and Captain Patrick 
IMiller, the younger, of Dalswinton, in the 
Whig or opposition interest. Burns, who was 
friendly to the latter party, here allegorises 
the contest ; characterising Dumfries as 
Maggy on the banks of Nith ; Annan, as 
Bess of Annandale ; Kirkcudbright, as 
Whisky Jean of Galloway; Sanquhar, as Black 
Joan frae Chrichton Peel; and Lochraaben 
«s Marjory of the many lochs — appellations, 
«11 of which have some appropriateness from 
local circumstances. The contest was de- 
cided in favour of Captain Miller. 

Page 179, Note 249.— Sir J. John- 
■tone. 

Page 179, Note 250. — Captain Miller. 

Page 179, Note 251. — King George the 
Tliird. 

Page 179, Note 252. — George, Prince 
of Wales, afterwards Regent, and King 
George the Fourth. 

Page 180, Note 253.— This is a de- 
•cription of the contest alluded to in the 
preceding poem. " Drumlanrig," is the in- 
famous fourth Duke of Queensberry. "Wes- 
lerha," is Sir James Johnstone, the Tory 
candidate. M'Murdo, was the Duke of 
Queensberry's chamberlain at Drumlanrig — 
a friend of the poet. " Craigdarroch ," :'3 
Fergusson, of Craigdarroch. " Glenriddel," 
n Captain Eiddel, of Gleiuruldel, another 



friend of the poet. " Staig," was the jircvost 
of Dumfries ; " Welsh," the sheriff of tha 
county. 

Page 180, Note 254. — A piece of ord- 
nance, of extraordinary structure and mag- 
nitude, founded in the reign of James IV. of 
Scotland, about the end of the fifteenth 
century, and which is still exhibited, though 
in an infirm state, in Edinburgh castle. 
The diameter of the mouth is twenty inches. 

Page 180, Note 255.— The " Bullers of 
Buchan " is an appellation given to a tre- 
mendous rocky recess on the Aberdeenshire 
coast, near Peterhead — having an opening 
to the sea while the top is open. The sea, 
constantly raging in it, gives it the appear- 
ance of a pot or boiler, and hence the 
name. 

Page 181, Note 256. — The executioner 
of Charles 1. of England, who, as was the 
custom, was masked. 

Page 181, Note 257.— John, Earl of 
Dundee. 

Page 181, Note 258.— The illustrious 
Graham, Earl, and afterwards Marquis, of 
Montrose. 

Page 181, Note 259. — Francis Grose, 
author of the Antiquities of England, Ire- 
land, and Scotland, and of several other pub- 
lications, some of which display considerable 
knowledge of mankind, wit, and humour, 
became acquainted with Burns at Captain 
Riddel's mansion at Friar's Carse, while 
making the necessary inquiries for his 
work on Scottish antiquities. He was a 
bon-vivant, and had acquired enormous 
personal bulk. Captain Grose died at 
Dublin, of an apopletic fit. May 12, 1791, 
in the fifty-second year of his age. 

Page 181, Note 260.— The extreme 
parish on the southern frontier of Scotland 
is called Kirhnaiden, of which this word 
Maidenlcirk is a mere transposition. Kirk- 
maiden parish is in Wigtonshire. 

Page 182, Note 261.— One of the old 
traditional Scottish ballads entitled Sir John 
Malcolm, furnished Burns with the rhyth- 
mical model of this piece. 

Page 182, Note 263. — This poem came 
through the hands of Rankine of AdamhiU 
to those of a gentleman of Ayr, who gave it 
to the world iu the Edbiburr/h Magazine for 
February 1818, with the following original 
superscription : — "To the Right Honourablt 
the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the 
Right Honourable and Honourable the 
Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of 
May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Gardea, 
to concert ways and means to frustrate the 
designs of five hundred Higblanders, who^ 



POEMS OF BURNS, 



49S 



AS the society M'ere informed by Mr. M , 

of A s, were so audacious as to attempt 

du escape from their lawful lords and 
masters, whose property they were, by 
emigrating from the lands of Mr. M'Donakl, 
of Gleiigar"y, to the wilds of Canada, in 
esarch of ( nat fantastic thing — Liberty." 

Page 183, Note 263 — "As the authen- 
tic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I 
shtt!l here give it. In the train of Anne of 
Deuinark, when she came to Scotland with 
our James VI., there came over also a 
Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and 
great prowess, and a matchless champion of 
Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, 
which, at the commencement of the orgies, 
he laid on the table, and whoever was the 
last able to blow it, every body else being 
disabled by the potency of the bottle, was 
to carry off the whistle as a trophy of 
victory. The Dane produced credentials of 
his victories, without a single defeat, at the 
courts 01 Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
Germany; and challenged the Scots Bac- 
chanalians to the alternative of trying his 
prowess, or else of acknowledging their in- 
feriority. After many overthrows on the 
part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered 
by Sir Robert Lawrie of ilaxwelton, an- 
cestor of the present worthy baronet of that 
name ; who, after three days' and three 
nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 
'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' 

Sir Walter, son of Sir Robert before men- 
tioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter 
Ridilel, of Glenriddel, who had married a 
sister of Sir Walter's. On Friday the 16th 
of October 1790, at Friar's-Carse, the 
whistle was once more contended for, as 
related in the ballad, by the present Sir 
Robert, of Maxwelton : Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of. Glenriddel, lineal descendant, aud repre- 
sentative of W'alter Riddel, who won the 
• liistle, and in whose family it had con- 
tinued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of 
Craigdarroch, likewise descended from the 
^eat Sir Robert ; which last gentleman 
carrieil off the hard-won honours of the field." 
— BuKNS. [The whistle is kept at this 
da> by the Right Honourable R. C. Fergus- 
ion, of Craigdarroch, M.P. for the Stewartry 
of Kbk(;udb;ight — son of the victor.] 

Tiie Rhenish Legends supply us with 
two or three analogous stories, in which 
cci tani cups or tauiards ligure, and of which 
they commemorate the facts in their pre- 
terva/jou. 



Page 183, Note 264— Vide the Cario 
thura of Ossian. 

Page 183, Note 265.— Johnson's Tout 
to the Hebrides. 

Page 184, Note 266.— James, four- 
teenth Earl of Glencairn, and in whose 
younger brother this ancient title became 
extinct in 1796, was a Whig nobleman of 
great generosity of disposition. He died 
unmarried at Falmouth, January 30th, 1791, 
in the forty-second year of his age. Burns, 
who considered himself greatly indebted to 
Glencairn, put on mourning for his deatl^ 
wrote this beautiful poem to his memory, 
and called a son after him, now Major 
James Glencairn Burns, of the East India 
Company's service. 

Page 186, Note 267. — Alexander Hon- 
roe, Professor of Anatomy to the University 
of Edinburgh. 

Page 186, Note 268.— The favour 
which formed the burthen of the foregoing 
poetical epistle, was the translation of the 
poet from the fatiguing Excise division of 
Ellisland, to the less laborious one of 
Dumfries, which favour is acknowledged aa 
having been obtained, in these lines. 

Page 186, Note 269. — An allusion to 
the decline of the fashion which was so 
prevalent during the last century amongst 
gentlemen, to drink to excess, swear, and 
indulge in other equally delicate amuse- 
ments, and in which the squirearchy sc 
eminently shone. It was this fashion wliich 
had been so. severely satirized by Fielding 
in his novels. 

Page 186, Note 270.— The nuns of 
Lincluden church, near Dumfries. 

Page 188, Note 271.— Though found 
among the papers of Bums, in his own 
hand-writing, aud printed as his in some 
former editions, the present editor has 
scarcely a doubt that this poem is not by 
the Ayrshire bard. It is much more like 
the composition of Fergusson, or Beattie. 

Page 188, Note 272. — This piece was 
first published in the edition of Burns's 
Works, produced by Messrs Chambers, and 
was contributed by Mr. James Duncan, of 
Mosesfield, near Glasgow, in whose posses, 
sion is the original manuscript. 

Page 189, Note 273. — ^Vhen Genera! 
Dumourier, after unparalled victories, left 
the army of the French Republic, April 
1793, and took refuge from the infuriated 
Convention, with the enemies he had lately 
beaten, some one expressing joy iii th« 
event where Buriis was present, he chanted 
almost extempore the aa>'castif itausaa of 
the text. 



600 



NOTES TO THE 



P\OE 189, Note 274.— Captain Riddel, 
of G'.enriddel, or JMr. Riddel of Woodlee 
park, which is not very decidly ascer- 
tained. In either case, we are iuforaied that 
the parties were reconciled. 

Page 189, Note 275.— Tlie Maria of 
this lampoon, and that which follows, was 
Mvs. Riddel, of Woodlee park, a lady of 
poetical talent and taste, with whom the 
poet was generally on the best terms, but 
who had temporarily repudiated him from 
her society, in consequence of an act of 
rudeness committed by him when elevated 
with liquor. She is the lady alluded to by 
Dr. Currie, of whom Burns, amongst his last 
days at Brow, asked if she had any com- 
mands for tlie other world, and who wrote 
the beautiful paper on his death, which 
first appeared in the Dumfries Journal, and 
was afterwards transferred entire to Currie's 
Memoir. 

Page 190, Note 276. — By ^sopus, is 
meant aa actor of the name of William- 
son. 

Page 190, Note 277.— Gillespie. 

Page 190, Note 278.— Colonel Mc 
Dowal, of Logan. 

Page 191, Note 279. — Bums also in- 
scribed the following lines on the windows 
bf a grotto in Captain Riddel's grounds : — 

To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matcldess worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 

Page 191, Note 280.— IMrs. Riddel, of 
Woodlee. 

Page 191, Note 281.— These lines 
were written in the fly leaf of a copy of 
Thomson's Select Scottish IMelodies, pre- 
sented to Jliss Graham, by Robert Burns. 

Page 192, Note 282.— Oa the night of 
December the 4th, 1795. 

Page 193, Note 283.— The heroine of 
several of his songs. Her name was Jean 
Lorimer, her father being a farmer at 
Kemeyss-Hall, near Dumfries. Burns seems 
to have formed an acquaintance with her 
during his stay at Elhsland, as there is 
still a pane in the eastern room of that 
house, bearing her name, and that of her 
lover John Gillespie, inscribed by her own 
hand, during a visit she paid there. She 
afterwards formed an unfortunate alliance 
with a Mr. Whelpdale, from whom she soon 
separated. At the time when the following 
stanzas were addressed to her, she was living 
in retirement at Dumfries, under depression 
of spirits, the consequence of her recent 
dciuestic uqhappiB laa. Further information 



respecting this elegant, but unfortnnatfl 
woman, is given elsewhere. • 

Page 193, Note 284.— On the death of 
General Stewart, representative of the Stew- 
artry of Kirkcudbright, in January 1795, 
Mr. Heron, of Kerroughtree, a zealous Whig, 
and a friend of Burns, became candidate for 
the vacant seat. He was opposed by Gor- 
don of Balmaghie, but gained his election. 
The third ballad relates to his contest at the 
general election of 1796, with the Hon. 
Montgomery Stewart. He was likewise 
elected on that occasion, but unseated by a 
committee. It is to be remarked, that the 
satirical allusions in these ballads, are alniost 
all founded merely in party bitterness, not 
iu truth. 

Page 194, Note 285.— John Busby, of 
Tinwold Downs. 

Page 194, Note 286.— Alluding to 
Busby's brother, whose fortune, as it was 
said, was founded before his emigration to 
the East Indies, in some transactions in 
which the Ayr bank was concerned. 

Page 194, Note 287.— JMt. Maxwell, of 
Cardoness. 

Page 194, Note 288.— Mr. Douglas, of 
Carlingwark, gave the name of Castle 
Douglas to a village which rose in his neigh- 
bourhood, and which has since become a 
considerable and thriving town. 

Page 194, Note 289.— Alluding to Mr. 
John Syme, an intimate friend of Robert 
Burns. 

Page 194, Note 290. — Troggin is a term 
applied, in Scotland to the various wares 
carried about by hawkers, who, in the same 
provincialism, are called trofjgers. 

Page 194, Note 291.— The Earl of 
Galloway. 

Page 194, Note 292.— Mr. Murray of 
Broushton. 

Page 195, Note 293.— ^ne of the ca*- 
didates in this election — Mr. Gordon ai 
Balmaghie. 

Page 194, Note 294. — Alluding somt- 
what severely, to Busby, of Tinwold. 

Page 195, Note 295. — Burns here 
alludes to a brother wit, the Rev. Mr. Muii- 
head, minister of Urr, in Galloway. 'I'he 
hit applied very well, for Muirhead was a 
wind -dried, unhealthy looking little man, 
very proud of his genealogy, and ambitious 
of being acknowledged, on all occasions, as 
the chief of the Muirhench! He was not 
disposed, however, to sit down with the 
allront : on the contrary, he replied to it in 
a virulent diatribe, which may be presented 
as a remarkable specimen of clerical and 
poetical iriitabihty ; and curious, moreover 



i 




<§m 




POEMS OF BTTIINS. 



501 



M perhaps the only contemporary satire 
upon Burns of which the world has ever 
heard, except the immortal " trimmina: 
letter " from a tailor. Dr. Muirhead's Jeu 
d' esprit is iu the shape of a translation from 
Martial's ode. Ad Vacerram, 

" Vacerras, shabby son of whore, 

Why do thy patrons keep thee poor? 

Thou art a sycophant and traitor, 

A liar, and calumniator. 

Who conscience (hadst thou that) wouldst 

sell. 
Nay lave the common sewers of hell 
For whisky. Like most precious imp. 
Thou arc a gmujer, rhyraster, pimp. — 
How comes it then, Vacerras, that 
Thou still art poor as a church rat ? " — 

Chambers. 

Pagk 195, Note 296. — Burns was a pri- 
vate in the volunteer yoeman corps of 
Dumfries, of which Colonel De Peyster was 
the commanding officer. 

Page 195, Note 297. — A monument 
about to be erected by Mr. Heron, of Ker- 
roughtree, in his own grounds. 

Page 195, Note 298.— Alluding to an 
only daughter, who died in the autumn of 

1795, and so far removed from his residence, 
>s to render it impossible for him to visit 
her at the last. She died, moreover, very 
■uddenly. 

Page 196, Note 299.— The Honourable 
Henry Erskine was elected Dean of the 
Faculty of Advocates in 1786, and unani- 
mously re-elected every year till 179G, when 
it was resolved by some members of the 
Tory party at the Scottish bar to oppose his 
re-election, in consideration of his having 
aided in getting up a petition against the 
passing of the well-known sedition bills. 
Mr. Erskine's appearance at the Circus 
(laow the Adelphi Theatre) on that occasion 
was designated by those gentlemen (among 
whom were Charles Hope and David Boyle, 
now respectively Lord President and Lord 
Justice-Clarke) as " agitating the giddy and 
ignorant multitude, and cherishing such 
humours and dispositions as directly tend 
to overturn the laws." They brought for- 
ward ]Mr. Robert Dundas, of Arniston, 
Lord Advocate, in opposition to Mr. 
E»skine ; and at the election, January 12th, 

1796, the former gained the day by 123 
against 38 votes. The following verses by 
Burns describe the keenness of the contest. 
The mortification of the displaced dean was 
■o estreme, tliat he that evening, with a 
eoal-axe, hewed off from his door in Prince's 
•treet, a brass-plate ou which his designa- 



tion as Dean of Faculty was inscribed. It 
is not impossible, that, in characterising 
Mr. Dundas so opprobriously, and we may 
add unjustly. Burns might recollect the 
slight with which his elegiac verses on the 
father of that gentleman had been treated 
eight years before. 

Page 197, Note 300.— The Duke of 
dueensberry stripped his domains of Drum- 
lanrig, in Dumfries-shire, and Neidpath ia 
Peebles-shire, of all the wood fit for being 
cut, in order to enrich the Countess of 
Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his 
daughter. 

Page 197, Note 301. — Burns was one 
day being rallied by a friend for wasting his 
satirical shafts on persons unworthy of his 
notice, and was reminded that there were 
such persons (distinguished by rank and 
circumstance) as the Duke of Queensberry, 
on whom his biting rhapsodies might more 
advantageously be expended. He immedi- 
ately improvised these lines. 

Page 197, Note 302.— Mr. M'Murdo 
resided at Drumlanrig, as chamberlain to the 
Duke of Glueensberry. He and his wife and 
daughters are alluded to in the election piece, 
entitled Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of 
Fintry. They were kind and hospitable 
friends of Burns, who celebrated several of 
the young ladies in his songs. 

Page 193, Note 303.— -'Sir Walter Scott 
possessed a tumbler, on which these Unes 
written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, 
~Mr. W. Stewart, factor to a genileman of 
Nithsdale. The landlady being very wrath 
at what she considered the distigurement of 
her glass, a gentleman present appeased her 
by paying down a shilling, and carried off the 
relic." — Lockhart. 

Page 198, Note 304. — According to 
Burns lumself, this song was written when 
he was about seventeen years old, in honour 
of a damsel named Isabella Steven, who 
lived in the neighbourhood of Lochlee. 

Page 193, Note 305.— The old ballad, 
McMillan'' s Peycjy, was the model of thi» 
song. The heroine of the piece was a young 
lady educated in a manner somewhat supe- 
rior to the peasantry in general, and on 
whom Burns practised to display his tact in 
captivating, until, by degrees, he fell ia love 
in earnest, and then discov ered that the object 
of this first sport, then earnest, was previ- 
ously engaged. " It cost me," says he, 
" some heartaches to get rid of the affair." 

Page 198, Note 306. — According to 
Mr. Cunningham, this was the same persou 
as Moiiff/omery's Peggy. But more accurate 
information identifies the heroMie of the piece 







'i^/?^ 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiii;iihmi.uitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 




If09 



NOTES TO THE 



as Margaret Alison, of Lochlee, wlio was 
not engaged, and who actually mourucd the 
iuconstancy of Burns. 

Page 199, Note 307.— This was the 
same Peg^gy Alison mentioned in the fore- 
going note. 

Pagk 199, NoTK 308. — An adaptation of 
the Old English Ballad, which was rescued 
from oblivion, obscurity, and black letter (in 
the Pepys Library, Cambridge), by Mr. 
Jamieson, who published it in his collection. 

Paos 200, Note 309. — Anne Blair, and 
Anne Ronald, daughters of farmers in Tar- 
bolton parish, and the latter of whom became 
Mrs. Paterson, of Aikenbrae, have each been 
spoken of in their native district as the 
heroine of this song. Tlie poet's family 
was intimate with IMr. Ronald's, when resi- 
ding at Lochlee, and even after they had re- 
moved to Mossgiel. Mr. Gilbert Burns was 
at one time considered as a wooer of one of 
the Miss Ronald's. "We learn from Mr. 
Cunningham that Mr. Ronald liked the con- 
versation of the poet very muclx, and would 
•ometimes sit late with him; on which one 
of tlie girls — probably not Anne — remarked 
that " she could na see ought about Robert 
Burns that would tempt her to sit up wi' 
hifn till twal o'clock at night." 

Page 200, Note 310. — This song was 
composed in honour of IMargaret Thomson, 
■who lived in a cottage adjoining the Village 
School of Kirkoswald, where Burns was 
completing his education, when nineteen 
years old. Burns himself gives the follow- 
ing account of the matter: — This Miss 
Thomson afterwards married a Mr. Nielson, 
and settled with him in the town of Ayr. 
" A charming tillette," says Burns in speaking 
of her, " who lived next door to the school, 
overset my trigoiuiinetry, and sent me off at 
• tangent from the sphere of my studies. 
1, however, struggled on with my sines aiul 
cosines for a few days more ; but stepping 
into thj garden one charming noon to take 
the suu'a altitude, there I met my angel. 

Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 



Herself a fairer flower. 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week 1 staid, 
1 did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
ioul about her, or steal out to meet her." 

Page 201, Note 311. — "This tune is by 
0-*wald ; and the words relate to some part 
of my private history, which it is of no cou- 
Betiuence to the world to know." — Bukns. 

Page 201, Notk 312. — In a memoir of 
Kamsay, in a publication entitled " Lives of 
Eminent Scotsmen" (3 vols. Boys, Loudon), 



there is presented a very early ifong to tht 
tune of My Nannie, O, beginning— 

"As I came in by Enbro' town, 
By the side o' the bonny city, O, 

I heard a yoiuig man mak his moan. 
And O! it was a pity, O. 

For aye he cried his Nannie, 0! 
His handsome, charming Nannie, O! 
Nor friend nor foe can tell, O — ho. 
How dearly I love Nannie, O ! " 
An improved song to the same air was written 
by Ramsay; and finally. Burns wedded the 
music to the following beautiful eftusion ol 
natural sentiment, the heroine of which is 
believed to have been a certain Agnes Flem- 
ing, servant at Calcothill, near Lochlee. 

Page 202, Note 313. — "An improve- 
ment upon an ancient homely ditty to the 
same air. It has been pointed out that the 
last admirable verse is formed upon a conceit, 
which was put into print long before the 
days of Burns, and in a place wliere it is not 
at all probable that he could ever have seen 
it — a comedy entitled Cupid's fVhirligig, pub 
lished in 1G07. The passage in the comedy 
is an apostrophe to the female sex, as fol- 
lows : — " Since we were made before you, 
should we not admire you as the last, and 
therefore, perfect work of nature. Man was 
made when nature was but an apprentice, 
but woman when she was a skilful mistress 
of her art." — Chambers. 

Page 202, Note 314. — A quotation from 
Young's " Night Thoughts." 

Page 203, Note 315.— The " Highland 
Lassie," celebrated iQ this song, was the 
Mary Campbell, to whom Burns was at one 
time engaged, and devotedly attached, and 
whose prcinalnre death, in fact, prevented her 
becoming Mrs. Burns. 

Page 204, Note 316.— "Composed ot 
the amiable and excellent family of White- 
foord's leaving Ballochrayle, when Sir John's 
misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate." — 
Burns. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, after- 
wards Mrs. Cranstone, The purchaser of the 
property was Claud Alexander, Esq., whose 
sister Burns has celebrated aa the Bonnie 
Lass of Ballochmyle. 

Page 205, Note 317.— The origin of this 
beautiful song was the accidental meeting of 
Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, in the grounds 
attached to the mansion of Ballochmyle, the 
property of her brother Mr. Claude Alexan- 
der. The song was written in 178G, and 
immediately forwarded by Burns to Miss 
Alexander, whose delicacy kept it uuknowo 
for the time. 

Page 205, Notb 318. — I composed this 




^ 



POEMS OF BUENS. 



d03 



•ong as I conveyed my chest so far on the 
road to (Jreenock, wliere I was to embark in 
• few days for Jamaica (November, 1786). 
i meant it as a farewell dirge to my native 
land." — -Burns. 

Professor ^Valker gives the following ac- 
count relating to this song. " I requested 
him (Burns) to communicate some of his 
uiipublUhed poems, and he recited his fare- 
well 3.>ng to the Banks of Ayr, introducing 
it with a description of the circumstances 
under which it was composed, more striking 
than the poem itself He had left Dr. Lau- 
rie's family, after a visit which he expected 
to be the last, and on his way home, had to 
cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His 
mind was strongly affected by parting for 
ever with a scene where he had tasted so 
much elegant and social pleasure; and de- 
pressed by the contrasted gloom of his 
prospects, the aspect of nature harmonised 
with his feelings ; it was a lowering and 
heavy evening in the end of autumn. The 
wind was up, and whistled through the 
rushes and long spear grass wliich bent be- 
fore it. The clouds were driving across the 
sky ; and cold pelting showers at intervals 
added discomfort of body to cheerlessuess of 
mind. Under these circumstances, and in 
this frame. Burns composed this poem. 

Page 205, Note 319. — This song relates 
to an incident in real life. The imfortunate 
herouie was a beautiful woman, daughter to 
a landed gentleman of Carrick, and niece to 
B baronet. Her lover was a landed gentle- 
man of Wigtonshire. A mother without the 
sanction of matrimony, and deserted by her 
lover, she died of a broken heart. On the 
subsequent death of her brother, her younger 
sister inherited the family property, but not 
without opposition from an unexpected 
quarter. The seducer and deserter of the 
deceased lady now appeared in a court of 
law, to endeavour >) estabhsh the fact of a 
secret marriage with her, so as to entitle him 
to succeed to her brother's estate, as the 
father and heir of her deceased chdd, whose 
claim, of course, would have been preferable 
to that of the younger sister, if his legitimacy 
oould have been proved. In this attempt, 
the seducer, it is gratifying to add, was not 
successful. 

The following was the original version of 
the song, written soon after the poet's de- 
parture from Ayrshire, and afterwards altered 
to suit an air composed by a Mr. Miller, 
writer in Edinburgh : — 



Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Dood, 
Uow can ^e bloom sae fair I 



How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae fu' o' care ! 
Thou' 11 break my heart, thou bonnie biro. 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie biri^ 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae 1 sang. 

And wist na o' my fate. 
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine. 
And ilka bird sang o' its love; 

And sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a roa^ 

Frae aff its thorny tree : 
And my fause luver staw the roM^ 

But left the thorn wi' me. 

Pa9e 205, NoTK 330. — "I composed these 
stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, 
at or near Moness, in Peithshire." — Burns. 
This was in the course of his Highland Ex- 
cursion, in the month of September, 1787. 

Page 205, Note 321. — James Alac- 
pherson was a noted Highland freebooter, 
of uncommon personal strength, and an ex- 
cellent performer on the violin. After 
holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, 
and Moray in fear for some years, he was 
seized by Duff, of Braco, ancestor of the 
Earl of Fife, and tried before the sheriff of 
Banffshire (November 7, 1700), along with 
certain gipsies who had been taken in his 
company. In the prison, while he lay under 
sentence of death, he composed a song, and 
an appropriate air, the former commencing 
thus : — 

" I've spent my time in rioting. 

Debauched my liealth and strength ; 
I squandered fast as pillage came. 
And fell to shame at length. 

But dantonly and wantonly. 

And rantonly I'll gae ; 
I'll play a tune, and dance it ronn' 
Beneath the gallows tree." 

WTien brought to the place of execution, on' 
the Gallow-hill of Banff (Nov. 16), he played 
the tune on his violin, and then asked if any 
friend was present who would accept the 
instrument as a gift at his hands. No one 
coming forward, he indignantly broke the 
violin on his knee, and threw away the frag- 
ments ; after which he submitted to his 
fate. The traditionary accounts of ^lac- 
pherson's immense prowess are justified by 
his sword, which is still preserved it. Dufl 
House; at Banff, and is aa imple'neu*- ol 



4f 



C04 



NOTES TO THE 



great length and weight — as well as by his 
bones, which were found a few years ago, 
and were allowed by all who saw them to be 
much stronger than the bonesof ordinary men. 

The verses of Burns — justly called by 
Mr. Lockhart, " a grand lyric," — were de- 
signed as an improvement on those of the 
freebooter, preserving the same air. In the 
edition of the poet's works, superintended 
by iMessrs. Hogg and Motherwell (Glasgow, 
1834), the reader will find ampler information 
on the subject of Macpherson and his " Rant." 

Page 207, Note 322.— The individual 
here meant is William, fourth Viscount of 
Strathallan, who fell on the insurgent side at 
the battle of Culloden, April, 1746. Burns, 
probably ignorant of this his real fate, de- 
scribes him as having survived the action, 
and taken refuge from the fury of the goveru- 
ment forces in a Highland fastness. 

Page 207, Note 323.— These verses 
were composed on a charming girl, a Miss 
Charlotte Hamilton, who was since married to 
James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., physician. 
She IS sister of my worthy friend, Gavin 
Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on 
the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I 
wrote these lines, residing at Harvieston, in 
Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of 
the little river Devon." — Burns. It was in 
the course of a short tour in company with Dr. 
Adair, August 1787, that the poet saw 
Miss Hamilton, at Harvieston. Introducing 
his fellow-traveller to the family, he was the 
means of bringing about an union, from 
which, says Adair, in 1800, " I have derived, 
and expect further to derive, much happiness." 

Page 207, Note 324.— "This song," 
Bays Burns, " I composed on one of the most 
accomplished of women. Miss Peggy Chal- 
mers (that was), now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of 
Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh." — 
Btrns. Miss Chalmers was first met by 
Burns in a trip through Clackmannanshire, 
in 1787. It was then that he visited Har- 
vieston in the month of August. 

Page 208, Note 325. — "I composed 
these verses," says Burns, " on Miss Isabella 
McLeod, of Ramsay, alluding to her feelings 
on the death of her sister, and the still 
more melancholy death (1786) of her sister's 
husband, the late Earl of Louden, who shot 
himself out of sheer heartbreak at some 
mortifications he suffered, owing to the de- 
ranged state of bis finances." 

Page 208, Note 326.—" The chorus I 
picked up from an old woman in Dumblane; 
the rest of the song is mine." — Burns. It 
is evident that the poet has understood the 
chorus iu a Jacobite seus^, and written his 



own verses in that strain accordingly. Ml 
Peter Buchan, has, nevertheless, ascertaiined 
that the original song related to a love 
attachment between Harry Lumsdale, tha 
second son of a Highland gentleman, and 
Miss Jeanie Gordon, daughter to the Laird 
of Knockhcspock iu Aberdeenshire. The 
lady was married to her cousin, Habichie 
Gordon, a son of the laird of Rhyniie ; and 
some time after, her former iover having met 
her, and shaken her hand, her husband drew 
his sword in anger, and lopped off several of 
Lurasdale's fingers — which Highland Harry 
took so much to heart, that he soon after 
died. — See Hogg and Motherwell's edition of 
Burns, II., 197. 

Page 208, Note 327.— "I composed 
these verses," says Burns, "out of compli- 
ment to a Mrs. Mcljichlan, whose husband 
was an officer in the East Indies." 

Page 208, Note 328.— "I composed 
these verses while I staid at Ochtertyre with 
Sir M^illiam Murray (father of Sir George 
Murray, late Secretary for tlie colonies). Tlie 
lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the 
same time, was the well-known toast. Miss 
i Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was 
called, and very justly, the Flower of 
Strat/imore."—Bvaiisis. This visit to Ochter- 
tyre took place in the mouth of June, 
1787. 

Page 209, Note 329.— "This song," 
says Burns, "I composed on Miss Jenny 
Cruickshank, only child of my worthy friend 
Mr. William Cruickshank, of the High 
School, Edinburgh." To the same person 
were also addressed the charming lines 
which begin : — 

" Beauteous rosebud young and gay," 

and which were written by Burns in the 
fly-leaf of a book presented by him to her. 
This young lady, who was then only twelve 
years old, afterwards became the wife of Mr. 
Henderson, a writer or legal practitioner at 
Jedburgh. Mr. Cruickshank's house was a 
floor at the top of a common stair now 
marked. No. 30, in James's Square, Ediu 
burgh ; the poet for some time hved with 
him, his room being one which has a window 
looking out from the gable ol the house 
upon the green behind the General Registei 
House. Here Burns lay while confined with 
a bruised limb in the winter of 1787-8. Mr 
Cruickshank died, March 8, 1795. 

Page 209, Note 330. — In imitation of a 
song of which that consummate libertine, 
Charles II., was the hero. 

Page 210, Note 331. — "I composed thii 
song' out of compliment t« Miss Ann Master' 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



SO-" 



<oii, tbe daiig;liter of my friehd Allan 'Master- 
ful, the aiitlior of ihe air Stratliallau's 
Lament, and two or three others in this 
work (Johnson's Scots Musical ]\Inseum)." — 
H ij 11 NS. Miss Mastertou afterwards became 
Mrs. Derbishire. 

Page 211, Note 332.— "The first half 
stanza of this soni; is old; the rest mine." — 
Burns. That half stanza was probably the 
Bame with the followinor, which occurs near 
the close of a homely ballad, printed in lloi^g 
and Mutherweil's edition of Burns, as pre- 
served by Mr. Peter Buchan, wlio further 
communicates that the ballad was composed 
in 1C3G, by Alexander Lesley, of Edinburgh, 
on Doveran side, frrandfather to the cele- 
brated Archbishop Sharpe : — 

" Ye'il bring me here a pint of wine, 

A salver and a silver tassie. 
That I may drink, before I gang, 

A health to my ain bonnie lassie." 

The fact of Burns pitching upon this one 
fine stanza of an old ballad, as a foundation 
for a new song, shows expressively the apt 
sense he had of all that was beautiful in 
poetry, and how ready his imagination was 
to take wing upon the slightest command. 

Page 211, Note 333.— These lines, which 
were found amongst the papers of Mrs. 
]\IcLehose, were evidently addressed to her, 
and allude to the parting scene between the 
poet and his Clariuda. " These exquisitely 
affecting stanzas contain the essence of a 
thousand love tales." — Sir Walter Scott. 

Page 211, Note 334.— The tune of this 
song was composed by Marshall, who for 
many years served in the capacity of butler 
to the Duke of Gordon, and to whose genius 
we are indebted for some of the most exqui- 
silB of Scottish airs. Of the words Burns 
gives the following brief account. "This song 
I composed out of compliment to Mrs. 
Burns. N.B. — It was the honey-moon." 

Page 212, Note 333.— "This air is 
Oswald's ; the song I made out of compliment 
to Mrs. Burns."-/ l^URNS. 

Page 212, Note 336.— "I composed 
this song," says Burns, " in the course of a 
most cheerless ride through the wild muirs 
which extend between Galloway and Ayr- 
shire." 

Page 213, Note 337.—" This celebrated 
poem was composed by Burns, in September 
llU'J, on the anniverssry of the day on which 
he heard of the death of his early love, Mary 
Campbell. According to Mrs. Burns, he 
Bpent that day, though labouring under cold, 
ill 5he usual work of the harvest, and appa- 
• "itly in excellent spirits. But, as the twi- 



light deepened, he appeared to grow ' very 
sad about something,' and at length wan. 
dered out into the barn-yard, to which his 
wife, in her anxiety, followed him, entreating 
him in vain to observe that frost had set irt, 
and to return to tue fireside. On being again 
and again requested to do so, he promised 
compliance — but still remained where lie waa, 
striding up and down slowly, and contem- 
plating the sky, which was singularly clear 
and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found hira 
stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes 
fixed on a beautiful planet, 'that shone like 
another moon,' and prevailed on him to come 
in. He immediately, on entering the house, 
called for his desk, and wrote exactly as they 
now stand, with all the ease of one copying 
from memory, these sublime and pathetic 
verses." 

Page 213, Note 338.— " I composed this 
song out of compliment to one of the happiest 
and worthiest married couples in the world, 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his 
lady. At their fireside I have enjoyed more 
pleasant evenings than at all the houses at 
fashionable people in this country put toge- 
ther." — Burns. Friars' Carse, closely adja- 
cent to Ellisland, on the bank of the Nith, 
was the residence of this couple. Mr. Riddel 
died April, 179 k 

Page 213, Note 339.— "Tliis air is 
Masterton's ; the song mine. The occasion 
of it was this : — Mr. William Nicol, of the 
High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn 
vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, wha 
was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton 
and I, went to pay Nicol a visit. We had 
such a joyous meeting, that Mr. ]\Iasterton 
and I agreed, each in our own way, that wa 
should celebrate the business." — Burns 
"This meeting," says Currie, writing in 
1799, "took place at Lag<;an, a farm pur- 
chased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the 
recommeiidation of Burns. These three 
honest fellows — all men of uncommon talents 
— are now all tinder the turf." Masterton 
has elsewhere been described by Burns as 
" one of the worthiest men in the world, ana 
a man of real genius." Nicol, who died April 
21, 1797, was a man of coarse nature and 
violent passions. 

Page 214, Note 340. — Composed on 
Miss Jean Jeffrey, daughter of the minister 
of Lochraaben. Burns, spending an evening 
with this gentleman at his manse, was much 
pleased with the young lady, who did the 
honours of the table ; next morning, at 
breakfast, he presented her with the song-. 
She is now Mrs. Renwi< k, and resides is. New 
York. — Chambers. 




Mm 




606 



NOTES TO THE 



?AQK 215, Note 341. — Tliis is an adap- 
tation of the English ballad of Sir Robert 
Ayton, who was secretary to the Q,ueen 
Consort of James I. (of England). The old 
ballad runs thus :— 
" I do confess thou'rt sweet ; yet find 

Thee such an unthrift of thy swceta. 
Thy favours are but like the wind, 

That kisseih every thing it meets; 
And since thou canst with more than one, 
Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
Tlie morning rose that untouched stands, 

Arni'd with her briars, how sweetly smells ! 
But plucked and strained through ruder 
hands. 
Her scent no longer with her dwells, 
But scent and beauty both are gone, 
And leaves fall from her one by one. 
Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, 

When thou hast handled been awhile; 
like sun-flowers to be thrown aside. 

And I shall sigh while some will smile: 
So see thy love for more than one 
Has brought thee to be loved by none." 

Page 217, Note 342. — This song is sup- 
posed to be one of those which Burns only 
improved from old versions. William Gor- 
don, sixth Viscount Kenmure, raised a 
body of troops for the Pretender iu 1715, 
and had the chief conininnd of the insurgent 
forces, in the south of Scotland. Taken at 
Preston, he was tried, and condemned to be 
beheaded, which sentence was executed on 
the 24th February, 1716. His forfeited 
estate was bought back by his widow, and 
transmitted to their son. By the son of 
that son — now Viscount Kenmure, iu 
consequence of the restoration of the title — 
Burns was, on one occasion, entertained at 
his romantic seat of Kenmure Castle, near 
New Galloway. 

Page 218, Note 343.— "The original 
title of this song was ' Fair Rabina : ' the 
heroine was a youjig lady to whora one of 
the poet's friends was attached, and Burns 
wrote it in compliment to his passion. 
Johnson, the proprietor of the Museum, 
disliked the name, and desiring to have one 
more suitable for singing, the poet, unwill- 
ingly, changed it to Eliza." — Cunningham. 
Page 218, Note 344. — Mr. Cunningham 
states that the heroine of this song was 
the wife of a farmer near Ellisland, and 
gives the following ainusuig account of 
her : — ' She was a very singular woman : 
tea, she said, would be the ruin of the nation ; 
•ugar was a sore evil ; w beaten bread was 
only fit for babes ; earthenware was a pick- 
jwcket; wooden floor* were but fit for 



thrashing upon; slated roofs, cold ; feathery 
good enough for fowls ; in short, she ah. 
horred change; and whenever anything 
new appeared, such as harrows with iron 
teeth, ' Ay, ay,' she would exclaim, ' ye'U see 
the upshot I ' 

Of all modem things, she disliked china 
the most ; she called it ' burnt clay,' and 
said it was only fit for 'handing the broo o' 
stinking weeds,' as she called tea. On one 
occasion, a southern dealer in cups and 
saucers, asked so much for his ware, that he 
exasperated a peasant, who said, ' I canna 
purchase, but I ken ane that will : gang 
there,' said he, pointing to the house of 
Willie's wife ; diniia be blate or burd- 
mouthed ; ask a gude penny — she has the 
siller.' Away went the poor dealer, spread 
out his wares before her, and summed up all 
by asking a double priice. A blow from her 
crumraock was his instant reward, which 
not only fell on his person, but damaged his 
china. 'I'll learn ye,* quoth she, as she 
heard the saucers jingle, 'to come with yere 
brazent English face and yere bits o' burnt 
clay to me ! ' She was an unlovely dame — 
her daughters, however, were beautiful." 

Page 219, Note 345. — "Looking over, 
with a musical friend, M'Donald's Collection 
of Highland Airs, I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oraii an Aoig, or 
the Song of Death, to the measure of which 
I have adapted my stanzas." — Burns to 
Mrs. Dunlop, December 17, 1791, at which 
time the song had just been finished. 

Page 219, Note 346. — ^Composed iu 
honour of Mrs. Stewart of Stair, whose pa- 
ternal property was situated on the banks of 
the Afton, an Ayrshire tributary of the Nith, 
near New Cumnock. Mrs. Stewart was one 
of the first persons of rank who knew or ex- 
tended any friendship to Burns. 

Page 220, Note 347. — In the edition of 
the Poems of Burns published by Hogg and 
Motherwell, there is a curious note attached 
to this song, in which all the parallel songs, 
ballads, or sketches of other authors are cited, 
as, in fact, they had, many of them, occurred 
to Burns. 

Page 220, Note 348.— This song was 
handed up to the chairman, extemporised on 
the back of a letter, by Burns, at a meeting 
of Excise oHicers, at Dumfries, when the 
poet was called upon for a song. 

Page 221, Note 319.— According to 
Mr. Cunningham, the heroine of this song, 
was Miss Jannette Miller, daughter of Mr 
Miller, of Dalswinton, a young lady of very 
extraordinary beauty, who, subsequently, 
married (iu 1795) Mr. Johu Thomas Enkiuc 




J^ 



M9> 



^OD^ 




POEMS OF BURNS. 



587 



the younger, of Slarr (since 13th Earl of 
Marr). 

Page 221, Note 350. — This song is sup- 
posed to express the love and admiration of 
Mr. Oswald, of Auchincruive, for Miss Lucy 
Johnstone — afterwards Mrs. Oswald, and who 
died of decline, at Lisbon, in 1798. 

Page222,'Note 351. — This song, whether 
absolutely original, or remodelled from 
some ancient ballad, was contributed by 
Burns to Johnson's Musical Museum. Mr. 
Cuuniiighara pronounces it not original. I 
cannot, however, trace any ballad, either 
amongst the early English, or early Scottish 
Poesy, which will sustain Mr. Cunningham's 
judgment; and, moreover, there are sufficient 
grounds for identifying its absolute origi- 
ualitj', the rhythm only being adopted. 

Page 224, Note 352. — "The occasion of 
this ballad was as follows : — When Mr. 
Cunninghame, of Enterkin, came to his 
estate, two mansion-houses on it, Enterkin 
and Aubank, were both in a ruinous state. 
Wishing to introduce himself with some 
iclat to the county, he got temporary erec- 
tions made on the banks of Ayr, tastefidly 
decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a sup- 
per and ball, to which, most of the respectable 
families in the county were invited. It was 
a novelty, and attracted much notice. A 
dissolution of parliament was soon expected, 
and this festivity was thought to be an 
introduction to a canvass for representing 
the county. Several other candidates were 
spoken of, particularly Sir John Whitefoord, 
then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pro- 
nounced Glencaird, and Mr. Boswell, the 
well-known biographer of Dr. Johnson. 
The political views of this festive assemblage, 
which are alluded to in the ballad, if they 
ever existed, were, however, laid aside, as 
Mr. Cunninghame did not canvass the 
county." — Gilbert Burns. 

Page 225, Note 353.— There is an old 
superstition, that, out of the slough of 
adders, are formed the pretty annular peb- 
bles, which have, of late years, become so 
popular, when polished, for mounting as 
jewels. 

Page 225, Note 354. — According to 
the family tradition, this song was composed 
in honour of Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee Park. 

Page 226, Note 355.— Miss Lesley Bail- 
lie was certainly worthy of the delicate and 
naif eulogy of this poem. She was the 
daugh \er of a landed proprietor in Ayrshire, 
and, subsequently, married Mr. Cumraing, of 
Logic. The occasion of the meeting, which 
funiished the impulse to this composition, 
was that on which, iu 1792, Mr. aud Miss 

44* 



Baillie were passing through Dumfries in 
their progress to England : — Burns accom- 
panied them for some distance on their 
journey, and was thus evidently charmed 
with the worth as well as the beauty of hia 
fair fellow-traveller. 

Page 226, Note 356. — "In my very 
early years," says Burns, "when I was 
thinking of going to the AVest Indies, I took 
this farewell of a dear girl (Mary Campbell), 
whom, although I did not leave the country, 
I never saw again." 

Page 227,' JSJote 357.— Tlie castle hera 
alluded to was that of Coilsfield, near Tar- 
bolton, the seat of Colonel Hugh jMont- 
gomery, who was ultimately twelfth Earl of 
Eglinton. The heroine of the verses was 
Mary Campbell, who lived in that house as 
a dairy-woman, but now resides with poetical 
immortality. Burns, after a long court- 
ship, and having agreed that they should be 
married, met her on the banks of the Ayi, 
to live one day of parting love, in anticipa 
tion of a visit she was to pay to her re- 
lations at Campbeltown in Argyleshire. 
Mary died at Greenock on her return, and 
thus left a blank iu the poet's affections 
which nothing thereafter filled up. 

Page 228, Note 338. — This song, which 
is the version contributed to Thomson's 
Selection, and which elicited such merited 
admiration from that elegant compiler, was 
a rescript of a former song contributed by 
Burns to Johnson's Musical Museum. The 
latter, however, was not absolutely original, 
being founded on an old ballad, whereas 
this version is entirely original. The ver- 
sion furnished to the Musical Museum runs 
as follows : — 

Braw, braw lads of Gala Water ; 

Oh, braw lads of Gala Water ; 
I'll kilt ray coats aboon my knee. 

And follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou' ( 
The inair I kiss sh'es aye my dearie. 

O'er yon bank, and e'er yon brae. 
O'er yon moss amang the heather; 

I'll ki't my coats aboon my knee. 
And follow my love thro' the water, 

Down amang the broom, the broorr., 
Down amang the broom, my dearie. 

The lassie lost her silken snood. 

That cost her mony a blirt and blehrio. 

Page 228,Note359.— "This,"say3 Burns, 
" was one of my juvenile works." Thesa 





>*-^t CD- 



SOS 



NOTES TO THE 



lilies were composed in honour of one of the 
fair daughters of a neighbour's house at 
Mauchliiie. " Of all the productions of 
Burns, the pathetic and serious love songs 
which he has left behind him in the manner 
of old ballads, are perhaps those which take 
deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. 
Such are the lines to Mary Morison, &c." 
■ — IIazlitt. 

Page 229, Note 360.— "Bunw, I have 
been informed, was one summer evening at 
the inn at Brownhiil with a couple of 
friends, when a poor wayworn soldier passed 
the window ; of a sudden, it struck the 
poet to call him in, and get the story of his 
adventures ; after listening to which, he all 
at once fell into one of those fits of abstrac- 
tion not unusual with him. He was lifted to 
the region where he had his 'garland and 
singing robes about him,' and the result 
was the admirable song which he sent you 
for • the Mill, Mill 6.' " — Correspond- 
ence OP Mr. George Thomson. Mill- 
Jlannoch, a sweet pastoral scene on the 
Coyl, near Coylton Kirk, is presumed to 
have been the spot where the poet imagined 
the rencontre of the soldier and his mistress 
to have taken place. 

Page 230, Note 361.— "The air oiLorjan 
Braes is old, and there are several old songs 
to it. Immediately before the rise of Burns, 
Mr. John Mayiie, who afterwards became 
known for a poem entitled the Siller Gun, 
wrote a very agreeable song to the air, 
beginning, 

'By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep.' 

It was published in the Star newspaper. 
May 23rd, 1789. Burns, having heard that 
song, and supposing it to be an old com- 
position, adopted into the above a couplet 
from it, which he admired : — 

'AVhile my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.' 

Mr. Mayne lived to a good old age, and 
died, March 14th, 1836, at liuoa Grove, 

near London."— Thomson. 

Page 230, Note 362. — ^Thk song was 
written expressly for Mr. Thomson's Collec- 
tion, that is, the two last stanzas, for the 
two first were the original words of an old 
ballad. Burns was struck with the wild 
bi':inty of the air, and with the imperfection 
of the closing part of the verses, and .sup- 
plied a remodelled version, such as it is in 
Hie text. 

Page 230, Note 363.— This song has 
been erroneously supposed to celebrate 
Btuus's own " Jean." It was really written 



in honour of the eldest daughter of Ml 
John McMurdo, of Druinlanrig — Miss Jean 
TMcMurdo, whose exquisite beauty of face 
and symmetry of figure, were remarkable 
even in a family uniformly handsome. 

Page 232, Note 364.— "You will re- 
member an unfortunate part of our worthy 
friend Cunningham's story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck my 
fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea 
justice as follows." — Burns to G. Thom- 
son, August, 1793. INIr. Alexander Cuu- 
ningliam was a jeweller in Edinburgh, a 
man of polished and agreeable manners, and 
admitted into a class of society considerably 
above his own. The story of his unfaithful 
mistress, which is here alluded to, made » 
great noise at the time, and has been kept 
in remembrance by Burns's song. 

Page 232, Note 365. — Phillis the Fail 
— Miss Phillis McMurdo, daughter of JMr 
John McMurdo, of Druinlanrig, mor( 
delicately lovely, though not so comraand- 
ingly beautiful as her elder sister Jean. 
She was subsequently married to Mr. 
Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath. The 
occasion of this song was the fancied passion 
of her music master (Burns's friendi Stephen 
Clarke, who requested the poet to supply 
him with an adequate copy of verses to 
celebrate her. 

Page 232, Note 366.— Benleddi is a 
mountain which rises to an elevation o/ 
upwards of 3000 feet, and which is situated 
to the westward of Strathallan. 

Page 233, Note 367. — An improve- 
ment upon an old song, the hero of which is 
said to have been the Rev. David William- 
son, Jlinister of St. Cuthbert's, Edinburgh, 
famous for having had seven wives, the first 
being the Laird of Cherrytree's daughter, 
with whom he became acquainted in a 
rather unceremonious manner when skulking 
during the days of " the Persecution." This 
remarkable patriarch, though first inducted 
into his charge in the time of the Common- 
wealth, was a vigorous preacher down to the 
days of Queen Anne. 

Page 233, Note 368.— "The old air, 
' Hey, tuttie taitie,' with Eraser's hautboy, 
has often filled my eyes with tears. There 
is a tradition, which I have met with in 
many places of Scotland, that it was Robert 
Brnce's inarch at the battle of Bannockburn. 
This thought in my solitary wanderings, 
warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
theme of liberty and independence, which I 
threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to 
the air, that one might suppose to be the 
gallaut Royal Scot's address tt' his berou 



POEirS OF BURNS. 



SOi 



followers on that eventful nornjng:." — 
Burns to G. Thomson, September 1792. 

Page 233, Note 369.— Aci:ording to 
some of Buriis's commentators, this song 
was written in 1793, on the occasion of Cla- 
rinda's purposed departure to join her h>is- 
band in the West Indies. This is a mistake. 
The words might, very possibly, ha"<e been 
mcjyested by such a circumstance ; but the 
song was written in 1794 for Thomson's 
collection. Burns having previously sug- 
gested the air of Oran Gao'd to his cor- 
respoudeut, and expressed his admiration 
of it. 

Page 236, Note 370. — "'How long and 
dreary is the night ! ' I met with some 
such words in a collection of songs some- 
where, which I altered and enlarged : and to 
please you, aud to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, 
and liave arranged it anew, as you will fiud 
on the other page." — Burns to G. Thom- 
son, October, 1794. 

Page 237, Note 371. — ^This song was 
composed in honour of the beautiful .Miss 
Jean Lorimer, afterwards Mrs. Whelpdale. 
The occasion of the composition was imme- 
diately on reaching home, after having met 
Miss Lorimer at a party • the date 1794. 

Page 237, Note 372.— The title of this 
song is of remote date in the English version, 
and even the opening lines have been re- 
tained. The air, however, had never before 
been coupled with it, aud the length of the 
stanzas was cut down, and the song otlier- 
wise remodelled by Burns for Thomson's 
collection, in which it was coujiled with 
Burns's favourite tune of Dainty Davie. 

Page 239, Note 273. — The supposition 
that this soug was elicited as a kind of peni- 
tential address to Mrs. Riddel, of Woodlee 
park, in consequence of an affront offered to 
her by the poet when intoxicated, is by no 
means well founded. Tlie purport of the 
8ong in no way concerned Burns personally, 
It was written for a friend as an apostrophe 
to an offended mistress, and the reply was 
also by the hand of Burns, who was thus 
employed on both sides in the dispute. The 
reply runs thus :— 

" Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 
For, ah ! thou knovv'st na' every pang. 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou 
leave me. 
Tell me that thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 
A.ud when this heart proves fause to thee. 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 



But to think I was betrayed, [winder 1 

That falsehood e'er our loves should 

To take the flow'ret to my breast. 
And find the guilefu' serpent under. 

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive. 

Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 
I'd slight, noi seek in other spheres 
That heaven I'd find within my bosom. 
Stay ray Willie — yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me'. 
For, ah ! thou knows't na' every pang 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou 
leave me." 

Page 239, Note 874.— The following 
passage, which conveys a very analogous 
idea, occurs in Wycherley's Comedy of ThM 
Plain Deahr : — 

" I weigh the man, not his title : 'tis not 
the king's stamp can make the metal better 
or heavier. Your lord is a leaden shilling, 
which you bend every way, and who debase* 
the stamp he bears." 

Page 240, Note 375. — "Composed on a 
passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular 
friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, 
afterwards Mrs. Whelpdale. Tlie young lady 
was born at Cragieburn Wood " (near 
Moffat). — Burns. Mrs. Whelpdale at a 
future date became the heroine Chloris, 
under which appellation she is the subject of 
many songs by Burns. It is painful to add, 
that this beautiful woman eventually sank 
into the lowest state of female degradation, 
and died in misery at MaucWine a few yean 
ago. — Chambers. 

Page 240, Note 376.— "Craigiebum 
Wood is situated on the banks of the river 
Moffat, and about three miles distant from 
the village of that uame, celebrated for its 
medicinal waters. The woods of Cragieburn 
and of Dumcrieff, were at one time favourit* 
haunts of our poet. It was there he me 
the ' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,' and that 
he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics." 
— Currie. 

Page 241, Note 377. — This song was 
composed on the same occasion, aud sug- 
gested by the same incident, as that to wiiica 
the song. Had I a Cave, is also attrilju- 
tabie, namely, a disappointment in love 
which befel Mr. Alexander Cunningham, the 
mutual friend of Burns aud Thomson. Th« 
date of this song is 1793. 

Page 242, Note 378. — Ii\ the originaJ 
manuscript this line runs, " He up the 
Gateslack to ray black cousin Bess." Mr. 
Thomson objected to this word, as well as t» 
the word Dahjarnock, in the nest versfl- 
Robert Burns replied as follows ;— ■ 



510 



NOTES TO THE 



" Gateslack is the name of a particular 
place, a kind of passage up among the 
Lawther hills, on the confines of this county. 
Dalgarnock is also the name of a romantic 
spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined 
church and a hurial-ground. However, let 
the first run, lie up the lang loan,&c." 

" It is always a pity to throw out anything 
that gives locality to our poet's verses." — 
CuiiaiE. 

Page 243, Note 379. — The heroine of 
this song was Mrs. Burus's endeared young 
friend. Miss Jessy Lewars, sister to one of 
Burns's associates in oflSce — since wife of 
Mr. James Thomson, writer, Dumfries. 

Page 241, Note 380.— This was the first 
attempt of Burns in verse. It was com- 
posed, according to his own account, in his 
sixteei.th year, on a "bonnie sweet sonsie 
lass," who was his companion on the harvest 
field. See his letter to Dr. Moore. He 
says elsewhere — " For my own part, I never 
had the least inclination of turning poet, till 
I once got heartily in love, and then rhyme 
and song were in a manner the spontaneous 
language of my heart. This compositiou 
was the first of my performances, and done 
ac an early period of life, when my heart 
glowed with honest warm simplicity, un- 
acquainted and uncorrupted with the ways 
of a wicked world. The performance is, 
indeed, very puerile and silly ; but I am 
always pleased with it, as it recalls to my 
mind those happy days when my heart was 
yet honest, and my tongue was sincere." 

Page 244, Note 3S1.— This autobio- 
graphical song, as it may be called, is under- 
stood to have been composed during the 
most depressed period of the poet's early 
fortunes, when struggling with family dis- 
tresses at Lochlee. " It is a wild rhapsody," 
he says, " miserably deficient in versification ; 
but as th3 sentiments are the genuine 
feelings of my heart, I have a particular 
pleasure in conning it over." — Chambers. 

Page 245, Note 382. — It has been said 
that there was some foundation in fact for 
this tale of a gossip — a wayfaring woman, 
who chanced to be present at the poet's 
birth, having actually announced some such 
prophecies respecting the infant placed in 
her arms. Some similar circumstances at- 
tended the birth of Mirabeau. 

Page 245, Note 383. — It may be grati- 
fying to curiosity to know the fates of the 
six belles of Mauchline. Miss Helen Miller, 
the first mentioned, became the wife of 
Burns's friend, Dr. Mackenzie. The divine 
Miss Markland was married to a Mr. Finlay, 
BU officer of Excise at Greenock. Miss Jean 



Smith was afterwards Mrs. Candlish. Miss 
Betty (Miller) became Mrs. Templeton, and 
Miss Morton married a Mr. Paterson. O/ 
Armour's history imjaortality has takes 
charge. 

The Glasgow Herald of Saturday, Septem- 
ber 6th, 1851, has the following notice of the 
death of the last of the MmcliUne Belles, 
" Died on Saturday, the 30th ult. (August 
1851), Mrs.Findlay, relict of Robert Findlay, 
Esq., of the Excise. In ordinary circum- 
stances, the departure from this life of a 
respectable lady, ripe in years, would not 
have afforded matter of general interest ; but 
it happens that the deceased was one of the 
very few persons surviving to our own times, 
who intimately knew the peasant bard in the 
first flush of his genius and manhood, and by 
whom her name and charms have been wedded 
to immortal verse. She was the "di'iue" 
Miss Markland, noticed in the " Belles of 
Mauchline." Miss Markland became the 
wife of Mr. Findlay, ofticer of Excise, of Tar- 
bolton, a gentlemen who was appointed to 
instruct the bard in the mysteries of gauging. 
The connection thus formed between Burns 
and Findlay, led to the introduction of the 
latter to Miss Markland, and his subsequent 
marriage to her in September of the same 
year (1788). Mrs. Findlay was in her 23rd 
year at the time of her marriage, and in her 
SGth at the time of her death." 

Page 245, Note 384. — Jean Armour, 
afterwards Mrs. Robert Burns who, as is 
well known, survived the poet. 

Page 245, Note 385.— This little frag- 
ment was composed in consequence of a mo- 
mentary glimpse which the poet one day 
obtained of a beautiful young female, who 
rode up to an inn at Ayr, as the poet was 
mounting his horse to leave it. 

Page 24G, Notk 383. — JfiZZie, a familiar 
appellation amongst the country people for 
Kilmarnock. This song was composed in 
allusion to a meeting of the Kilmarnock 
Mason Lodge, which took place in 1786, and 
at which William Parker, one of the poet'f 
oldest friends presided, and which Bunn 
himself attended. The song was an im- 
promptu, and was sung, as it is believed, at 
this very meeting. 

Page 246, Note 387 {misprinted 386).— 
The air of Bonnie Dundee appears in the 
Skene MS., of date circa 1620. The tune 
seems to have existed at even an earliet 
period, as there is a song to it amongst thosa 
which were written by the English, to dis- 
parage the Scottish followers by whom 
James VI. was attended on his arrival in tha 
south. The first oi the following verses il 



FOEIIS OF BURNS. 



511 



tT( ra an old homely ditty, the second ouly 
being the corapositiou of Burns. 

Page 249, Note 383.— "This song is 
sai<l to be a homely version of a Highland 
lament for tlie ruin which followed the re- 
bellion of the "forty-tive." Burns heard it 
sung iu one of his northern excursions, and 
begged a transcription." — Cunningham. 

Page 251, Note 389.— Written at the 
commencement of his residence at EUisland, 
to express the buoyant feelings which ani- 
mated him on that occasion, when, as he 
himself iuforras us, he enjoyed a few days, 
the most tranquil, if not the happiest, he had 
ever experienced. 

Page 255, Note 390. — This ballad is, as 
well as some of those which have preceded it, 
dedicated to the turmoil of the parliamentary 
election at Dumfries, in whicli Burns took as 
active a part as he well could on the tory side: 
— to wit, in the election of 1790. Inthe"Five, 
Carlines," as well as iu the " Second Epistle 
WMr. Graham of Fintry ; " the poet appeared 
to reserve a neutral position, merely sketch- 
ing the events as they occurred ; and, iu fact, 
it was obvious, seeing his dependency upon a 
government situation, that he should observe 
some measure in his political writings. Bnrns's 
genius had moreover acquired for him friends 
amongst men of all parties, many of vv^hom in 
the heat of a political contest, might have 
felt aggrieved at any uncalled for violence on 
his part. The secret Jacobitish yearnings of 
Burns naturally impelled him to the side of 
Sir James Johnstone, thetory and Pittitecandi- 
date, whilst being the tenant of Mr. Miller, 
father of the whig or opposition candidate, to 
whom he was indebted for much personal 
kindness, he could not well signalise himself 
by any very decided exertion agai'ist Mr. 
Miller the younger. In this ball.td "the 
Laddies of the Banks of Nith," he does not 
retain such very decided neutrality, and 
pretty clearly allows his tory predilections to 
oose out. It must be noticed, however, that 
the toryism of Burns was merely a tradition- 
ary love for the native Scotch race of princes, 
and a detestation for the usurping dynasty 
(as he thought) of Brunswick ; for in abstract 
political principles, it may easily be gathered 
from his writings that he had a far greater 
leaning towards Jacobinism, than towards the 
exploded principle of the divine right of kings. 
Sir Walter Scott, writing to Mr. Lockhart, 
with an enclosure of a whole parcel of letters 
of Burns says : — " In one of them to that 
lingular old curmudgeon. Lady Winifred 
Constable, you will see he plays high Jaco- 
bite, and on that account it is curious , though 
I fancy his Jacobitism. like mine, belonged to 



the fancy, rather than to t^e reason. H« 
was, however, a great Pittite down to a cep 
tain period, that is, until the influx of Jacobin 
nism from the outbreak of 1789, when he 
certainly became more decidedly Jacobin than 
Jacobite. There were some passing stupid 
verses in the papers, attacking and defending 
his satire on a certain preacher whom he 
termed an unco calf. In one of them occurred 
these lines in vituperation of the adversary;— 

A whig I guess ; but Rab's a tory. 
And gies us mony a funny story. 

This was in 1787." 

In the "Laddies of the banks of Nith,' 
Burns first alludes to the great influence of 
the Duke of (iueensberry, owing to h>3 
extensive landed possessions in the neigh- 
bourhood. — The Duke of Queeiisberry figures 
in no enviable light, either politically or 
privately. — A life spent in mere selfish grati- 
fication and profligacy, and a political career 
stamped with his protest of December 26th, 
1788, on the Regency question, are very 
concisely lashed. 

Page 256, Note 391. — Captain Grose 
himself, was the first and most earnest to 
relish the point of this epigram. It was an 
impromptu of one of the drinking parties or 
nightly carousals of these " guid fellows." 

Page 256, Note 392. — An allusion to 
the excessive corpulency of Captain Grose, 
which was a common subject of joke with 
himself. 

Page 256, Note 393.—" Stopping at a 
merchant's shop, a friend of- mine, in Edin- 
burgh, one day put Elphinstone's translatioa 
of Martial into my hand, and desired my 
opinion of it. I asked permission to write 
my opinion in a blank leaf of the book, 
which, being granted, I wrote this epigram." 
— Burns. A similar klea occurs in a mock- 
heroic poem, entitled the Knight, by 
William Meston, who, in allusion to Dr. J. 
Trapp's translation of the Georgics of Virgil, 
says : — 

" Read the commandment, Trapp, proceed 

no further ; 
For there 'tis written, thou shalt do uc 

murder." 

Page 256, Note394.— The Miss Burnt 
who was the subject of these lines, was a 
young English woman, settled in Edinburgh 
— as remarkable for tlie laxity of her de- 
meanour, as for the exquisite beauty of her 
person. She figured in the less rigid society 
of some of our wits, and her portrait was 
engraved and published by Mr. John Kay, 
It was on one of these pugravings tha* 



ns 



NOTES TO THE POEMS OF BURN'S. 



Burns wrote the lines wliich it su 
gested. I 

Page 257, Note 395. — These lines were 
in reply to a question put to the poet : 
"Wherefore Miss Davies (a particular fa- 
vourite of Burns's) should have been made 
60 dnninutive, and another lady named, so 
large in proportion ? " 

Page 257, Note 396. — ^The occasion 
which suggested these lines, was the receipt 
of intelligence that the Austrians had been 
totally routed at Gemappes, by General 
Dumourier (1792.) 

Page 257, Note 397. — Burns, accompa- 
nied by a friend, having gone to Inverary at 
a time when some company were there on a 
visit to his Grace the Duke of Argyle, finding 
himself and his companion entirely neglected 
by the innkeeper, whose whole attention 
seemed to be occupied with the visitors of 
his grace, expressed his disapprobation of 
the incivility with whicb he was treated, in 
the above lines. 

Page 257, Note 398. — Composed and 
repeated by Burns, to the master of the 
house, on taking leave at a place in tlie 
Highlands, where he had been hospitably 
entertained. 

Page 257, Note 399.— Spoken, in reply 
to a gentleman, who sneered at the sufferings 
of Scotland for conscience-saKe, and called 
the Solerari League and Covenant ridiculous 
and fanatical. 

Page 258, Note 400.— These were a 
society of friends of the government, who 
assumed an exclusive loyalty during the 
fervours of the French Revolution. The 
above lines were written in consequence of 
the receipt, at a convivial meeting, of the 
following senseless quatrain from one of the 
Loyal Natives - — 

" Ye sons of seditioiv give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade 

every 'throng. 
With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the 

quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a 

smack." 
Page 258, Note 401. — ^When the Board 
of Excise informed Burns that his business 
was to act, and not to think and speak, he 
read the order to a friend, turned the paper, 
end wrote what he called The Creed of 

Pr<fmy — CUNNINGKAM. 



Page 258, Note 402. — "These lines art 
addressed to John Taylor, blacksmith, at 
Wanlockhead, on being indebted to hiin, 
one winter's day between Dumfries-shire and 
Ayrshire, for a small cast of his office." — 

BUKNS. 

Page 259, Note 403. — Burns was called 
upon for a song at a dinner of the Dumfries 
Volunteers, in honour of Rodney's victory 
of the 12th of April, 1782. He replied to 
the call by pronouncing the following. 

Page 259, Note 404. — This was at the 
King's Arms Inn, Dumfries, and was siigges 
ted by hearing some person speak in terms 
of reproach of the officers of his Majesty'i 
Excise. 

Page 259, Note 405.— This lady, in her 
early days, was an intimate friend of Mrs. 
Burns, and also a great favourite with the 
poet, who esteemed her sprightly and affec- 
tionate character. During his last illness, 
his surgeon, Mr. Brown, brought in a long 
sheet, containing the particulars of a me- 
nagerie of wild beasts which he bad just been 
visiting. As Mr. Brown was handing the 
sheet to Miss Lewars, Burns seized it, and 
wrote upon it these verses with red chalk; 
after wluch he handed it to Miss Lewars, 
saying that it was now fit to be presented 
to a lady. Miss Le.vars afterwards married 
Mr. James Thomson, of Dumfries. 

Page 259, Note 406.— While Miss 
Lewars was waiting upon him in his sick 
chamber, the poet took up a crystal goblet 
containing wine and water, and after writing 
upon it these verses, in the character of a 
Toast, presented it to her. 

Page 259, Note 407.— At this time of 
trouble, on Miss Lewars complaining of 
indisposition, he said, to provide for tlw 
worst, he would write her epitaph, lie 
accordingly inscribed these lines on another 
goblet, saying, " That will be a companion 
to the Toast." 

Page 260, Note 408. — Quotation from 
Goldsmith. 

Page 260, Note 409. — James Humphry. 

Page 260, Note 410.— Mr. John \V1lsoa5 
printer, of Kilmarnock, by whom the tirat 
edition of Burns's Poems was produced. 

Page 261, Note 411.— (Misprinted 409) 
The father of Dr. Richardson, who accom 
panied .Ftauklin'a expeditioa. — Cham 

BESS. 





^'^^ ...,,,,,,,.,,,, iiiiiMiKiFtiitiMiiDiiiiiinn 



]MtB tn llje CnrrapnkEre nf Mxm. 



,?AGE 2o8, Note 1. — ^5Ir. James Burness, of 
Montrose, stood iu the relationslup of first 
cousin to Robert Burns. The father of 
James was, like his brother William, in 
humble circumstances, but had pursued a 
more prosperous career. We liave already 
had occasion to remark that the poet was 
the first of his family to abbreviate the 
name of Burness to Burns. Tlie grandson 
of James Burness, of Montrose, was the 
Lieutenant Burness of our owu time, the 
author of 'Iravels in Bukhara. 

Page 270, Note 2.— Mr. John Rich- 
xoad was one of the earhest friends of 
Burns at Mauchline. He had since em- 
barked in the study of the law, and was 
fiepariug for that profession at Edinburgh. 

Page 271, Note 3. — Maucliliue Corse is 
the name of the Market Cross, in the centre 
of the village or town. 

Page 272, Note 4. According to 
Motlierwell, the piece to which Burns alludes 
in tliis letter was that entitled the Moantain 
Basil/, or as it was called iu the original 
nianuscript. The Goaoaii. 

Page 272, Note 5. — Mr. David Brice 
was a shoemaker at Glasgow, and an early 
associate of the poet. 

Page 272, Note 6. — Alluding to Miss 
Jean Armour's return from Paisley, to which 
»he had been sent by her parents, to be out 
of the reach of her too ardent lover. Burns 
writes in this spirit under the impression 
that her own feehngs towards him had 
actually been distorted by the influence of 
her frieuds. This was, to a certain extent, 
the case, as we have had occasion to uotice 
hi. 



in the foregoing portion of this volume, ia 
the dissertation on the Life of Robert 
Burns. 

Page 275, Note 7. — The expression! 
contained in this letter strongly betray the 
extreme distress from which Burns was 
suffering, owing to the forced separation 
between himself and Jean Armour. 

Page 275, Note 8. — Au allusion to the 
efforts which were being made at this time 
by Mr. Aiken, and the other friends of the 
poet, to procure for him au appointment to 
office iu the Excise. 

Page 276, Note 9. — Miss Alexander, 
the sister of Mr. Claude Alexander, who had 
recently purchased the estate of Balloch- 
myle. 

Page 276, Note 10.— The 25th of 
January, 1759, was the day on which Burns 
was born. 

Page 277, Note 11. — The designation 
appUed to old bachelors. 

Page 277, Note 12. — ^Without a proper 
covering or cloak to protect you from its 
rigour. 

Page 277, Notk 13.— Lady Betty Cun- 
ningham. 

Page 278, Note 14, — This paper was 
written by the author of The Man oj 
Feelimj, Mr. Mackenzie. 

Page 279, Note 15. — One of those 
traditionary examples with which the hvely 
memory of Burns was so teeming. He 
appears to have retained and culled these 
recollections cf his early years with peculiar 
T jueration. 
Page 280.Uoib 16.— Dr. Moore's lettofc 



514 



NOTES TO THE 



to which this lettei was a reply, ran as 
follows : — 

" Clifford Street, Janmrg 23rd, 1737. 

" SiK — I have just received your letter, by 
iv'hich I tiud I have reason to complain of 
my friend Mrs. Dunlop, for transmitting- to 
you extracts from my letters to her, by much 
too freely, and too carelessly written for 
your perusal. I must forgive her, however, 
in consideration of her good intention, as 
you will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom 
I use with certain expressions, in con- 
sideration of my admiration of the poems in 
general. If I may judge of the author's 
disposition from his works, with all the 
other good qualities of a poet, he has not 
the irritable temper ascribed to that race of 
men by one of their own number, whom you 
have tlie happiness to resemble in ease and 
curious felicity of expression. Indeed, the 
poetical beauties, however original and 
brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I 
admire in your works ; the love of your 
native country, that feeling sensibility to all 
the objects of humiinity, and the inde- 
pendent spirit which breathes through the 
whole, give me a most favourable impression 
of the poet, and have made me often regret 
that I did not see the poems, the certain 
effect of which would have been my seeing 
the author, last summer, when I was longer 
in Scotland than I have been for many years. 

" I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I tliiiik 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
Dr. Blair, who, I am informed, interests 
himself very much for you. I beg to be re- 
membered to him; nobody can have a 
warmer regard for that gentleman than I 
have, which, independent of the worth of 
his character, would be kept alive by the 
memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
George B e. 

" Before I received your letter, I sent, eii- 

closed in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss 

Williams, a young poetical lady, which she 
wrote on reading your Mountain Daisy ; 
perhaps it may not displease you : — 

'While soon " the garden's flaunting flowers" 
decay 

And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie. 
The ' Mountain-Daisy,' cherish'd by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah, like that lo lely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penury's bare sod and bitter gale; 
He felt each storm that ou the mountaui 
blows. 

Nor evM knew the shelter of the vale. 



By genius in her native vigour nurst, 

On nature with impassion'd look he ga-sed; 
Then through the cioud of adverse foTtia* 
burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrowed fjiazed, 
Scotia! from rude afflictinn shield thy baid; 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herseli 
will guard.' 

" I have been trjdng to add to the number 
of your subscribers, but find many of my 
acquaintance are already among them. I 
have only to add, that, with every sentiment 
of esteem, and the most cordial good wishes, 
I am, your obedient humble servai\t, 

J. Moore." 

Page 282, Note 17.— Subjoiued is Di. 
Moore's reply to this letter, which is aducd 
to throw additional light on the subject :— 

" Clifford Street, Feb. 2Sth, 1787. 

"Dear Sir — Your letter of the 15th gare 
me a great deal of pleasure. It is not .sur- 
prising that you improve in correctness aiid 
taste, considering where you have been for 
so-:iie time past. And I dare swear there is 
no danger of your admitting any polish 
which might weaken the vigour of you. 
native powers. 

" I am glad to perceive that you disdaiu 
the nauseous atfectation of decrying your 
own merit as as a poet, an affectation which 
is displayed with most ostentation by those 
who have the greatest share of self-conceit, 
and which only adds undeceiving falsehood 
to disgusting vanity. For you to deny tha 
merit of your poems, would be arraigning the 
ti.'ied opinion of the public. 

" As the new edition of my View of 
Societi/ is not yet ready, I have sent you 
the former edition, which 1 beg you will 
accept as a small mark of my esteem. It is 
sent by sea to the care of Mr. Creech; and 
along with these four volumes for yourself, 
I have also sent my Medical Sketches in, 
one volume, for my friend Mrs. Dunlop, of 
Dunlop ; this you will be so obliging as to 
transmit, or, if you chance to pass soon by 
Dunlop, to give to her. 

" 1 am happy to hear that your subscrip- 
tion is so amjile, and shall rejoice at every 
piece of good fortune that befalls you. For 
you are a very great favourite in my family; 
and this is a higher :(ompliment than perliaps 
you are aware of. It includes almost all the 
professions, and, of course, is a proof that 
your writings are adapted to various tastes 
and situations. My youngest son, who is al 
Winchester school, writes to me, that he is 
translating some stanzas of your ' Hallowe'en' 
into Latin verse, for the benetit of his com 




#i^' 

^4^^ 




CORRESPOTTDENCE OP BURNS. 



61S 



rtdes. This unison of taste partly proceeds, 
no doubt, from the cement of Scottish par- 
tiality, with which they are all somewhat 
tinctured. Even your translator, who left 
ScoJ.aud too early in life for recollection, is 
not without it. I remain, with great since- 
rity, your obedient servant, J. Moore." 

Page 282, Notk 13.— Mr. William 
Dunbar was writer to the Signet, in Edin- 
burgh, and was the person celebrated in the 
»ou'2;,~JlattlMg Roaring Willie. 

Page 230, Note 19. — Dr. Smith was 
author of the well-knov/n work, entitled 
2'ke Wealth of Nations, and of some admirable 
translations of the best Greek authors. 

Page 286, Note 20.— Subjoined is Dr. 
Moore's reply to this letter : — 

" Clifford Street, May 2Zrd, 1787. 

"Dear. Sir — I had the pleasure of your 
letter by Mr. Creech, and soon after he sent 
me the new edition of your poems. You 
seem to think it incumbent on you to send 
to each subscriber a number of copies pro- 
portionate to his subscription money, but 
you may depend upon it, few subscribers 
expect more than one copy, whatever they 
subscribed; I must inform you, however, 
that I took twelve copies for those sub- 
scribers, for whose money you were so 
accurate as to send me a receipt, and Lord 
Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies 
for himself, as he wished to give five of them 
as presents. 

" Some of the poems you have added in 
this last edition are very beautiful, particu- 
larly tiie ' Winter Night,' the ' Address to 
Edinburgh,' 'Green grow the rashes,' and 
the two songs immediately following — the 
latter of which is exquisite. By the wa.v, 
I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such 
compositions which you ought to indulge. 
No kind of poetry demands more delicacy 
or higher polishing. Horace is more ad- 
mired on account of his Odes than all his 
other writings. But nothing now added is 
eriual to your ' Vision ' and ' Cotter's Satur- 
day Night.' In these are united fine ima- 
gery, natural and pathetic description, with 
Bublimity of language and thought. It is 
evident that you already possess a great 
variety of expression and command of the 
English language ; you ought therefore to 
deal more sparingly for the future in the 
provincial dialect. — Why should you, by using 
that, limit the number of your admirers to 
those who understand the Scottish, when 
you can extend it to all persons cf taste who 
understand the English language? In my 
Opiuicu, you should plau some larger work 



than any you have as yet attempted. I a.>ean, 
reflect upon some proper subject, and ar- 
range the plan in your mind, without begin- 
ning to execute any part of it till you have 
studied most of the best English poets, and 
read a little more of history. The Greek 
and Roman stories you can read in some 
abridgment, and soon become master of 
some of the most brilliant facts, which must 
highly delight a poetical mind. You should 
also, and very soon may, become master ol 
the heathen mythology, to which there aie 
everlasting allusions in all the poets, and 
which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What 
will require to be studied with more atten- 
tion, is modern history ; that is, the history 
of Prance and Great Britain, from the begin- 
ning of Henry VII.'s reign. I know very 
well you have a mind capable of attaining 
knowledge by a shorter process than is 
commonly used, and I am certain you are 
callable of making a better use of it, when 
attained, than is generally done. 

" I beg you will not give yourself the 
trouble of writing to me when it is incon- 
venient, and make no apology when you 
do write for having postponed it, — be assured 
of this, however, that I shall always be 
happy to hear from you. I think my friend 
Mr. Creech told me that you had some poems 
in manuscript by you, of a satirical and 
humorous nature (in which, by the way, I 
think you very strong), which your prudent 
friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
larly one called ' Somebody's Confession ; ' 
if you will entrust me with a sight of any 
one of these, I will pawn ray word to give 
no copies, and will be obliged to you for a 
perusal of them. 

"I understand you intend to take a farm, 
and make the useful and respectable busi- 
ness of husbandry your chief occupation: 
this, I hope, will not prevent your making 
occasional addresses to the nine ladies who 
have shown you such favour, one of whom 
visited you in the ' auld clay biggin.' 
Virgil, before you, proved to the world that 
there is nothing in the business of husban- 
dry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope 
that you may afford an example of a good 
poet being a successful farmer. I fear it 
will not be in my power to visit Scotland 
this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour t« 
find you out, for I heartily wish to see and 
converse with you. If ever your occasions 
call you to this place, I make no doubt ol 
your paying me a visit, and you may depend 
on a very cordial welcome from this family. 
I am, dear Sir, your friend and obedieat 
servant, "J, MooBB." 



45 



Q.-cf\a-''raT^ 




51S 



NOTES TO THE 



Page 283, No-ra 21.— Throng, a very 
famili;ir Scottish term for busy — " having 
one's liands full." 

Page 28G, Note 22. — Burns here alludes 
to his excursion to the south, to visit 
places of interest, and full of the traditions 
of the Border contests of early Scottish 
history. 

Page 287, Note 23. — An engraving 
executed by Beugo, from Nasmyth's por- 
trait of Robert Burns, and which all persons 
admitted to be even a more faitlxful likeness 
than the picture, although that possessed 
much merit. 

Page 287, Note 24. — Subjoined is Dr. 
Blan's reply to this letter : — 

" Argijle Square, Edinbiu-gh, May ith, 1787. 

"Dear Sik — I was favoured this fore- 
noon with your very obliging lettter, to- 
gether with an impression of your portrait, 
for which I return you my best thanks. 
The success you have met with I do not 
think was beyond your merits ; and if I 
have had any small hand in contributing to 
it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no 
way in which literary persons who are ad- 
vanced in years can do more service to the 
world, than in forwarding the eiforts of 
rising genius, or bringing forth unknown 
merit from obscurity. I was the first person 
who brought out to the knowledge of the 
world the poems of Ossian ; first, by the 
' Fragments of ancient Poetry,' which I 
published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and 
pubhshing the ' AVorks of Ossiau ; ' and 1 
have always considered this as a meritorious 
action of my life. 

"Your situation, as you say, was indeed 
singular ; and in being brouglit, all at once, 
frciu the shades of deepest privacy to so 
great a share of public notice and observa- 
tion, you had to stand a severe trial. I am 
liappy that you have stood is so well ; and, 
as far as I have known or heard, though in 
the midst of many temptations, without 
reproach to your character and behaviour. 

" You are now, I presume, to retire to a 
more pri vate walk of life ; and I trust will 
conduct yourself there with industry, pru- 
dence, and honour. You have laid the 
foundation for just public esteem. In the 
midst of those employments which your 
situation will render proper, you will not, I 
hope, neglect to promote that esteem, by 
cultivating your genius, and attending to 
such productions of it as may raise your 
character still higher. At the same time, 
be not iu too great a haste to come forward. 



Take time and leisure to improve and matare 
your talents ; for, on any second production 
you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will 
very much depend. There is no doubt a 
gloss of novelty, which time wears oiF. As 
you very properly hint yourself, you are not 
to be surprised, if in your rural retreat you 
do not find yourself surrounded with that 
glare of notice and applause which here 
shone upon you. No man can be a good 
poet without being somewhat of a philoso- 
pher. He must lay his account, that any 
one, who exposes him to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of 
illiberal censure, which it is always best to 
overlook and despise. He will be inclined 
sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear 
from public view. He will not atfect to 
shine always, that he may at proper seasons 
come forth with more advantasje and energy. 
He will not think himself neglected if he be 
not always praised. I have taken tlie 
liberty, you see, of an old man to give ad- 
vice and make reflections, which your own 
good sense will, I dare say, render un- 
necessary. 

"As you mention your being just abont to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dumfries-shire, to look at some of Mr. 
ililler's farms. I heartily wish the offers to 
be made you there may answer, as 1 am per- 
suaded you will not easily find a more 
generous and better-hearted proprietor to 
live under than Mr. Miller. AVhcn you 
return, if you come this way, I w ill be happy 
to see you, and to know concerning your 
future plans of life. You will find me by 
the 2'Jnd of this month, not in my house in 
Argyle square, but at a country house in Kes- 
talrig, about a mile east of Edinburgh, near 
the Musselburg road. Wishing you, with 
the warmest interest, all success and pros- 
perity, I am, with true regard and esteem, 
dear iiir, yours sincerely, Uuqh Blaik." 

Page 287, Note 25. — Burns here alludes 
to an extempore address, which he wrote otf- 
hand to Mr. Creech, of which the opening 
words are Aidd Chuchie Reekie's sair 
ilistrest, and which will be found amongst the 
poems in the foregoing part of this volume. 

P.4GE 287, Note 26. — This patron was 
James, Earl of Glencairn, whose counteiuuice 
had also reared Mr. Creech to emineuoe : — 
that celebrated bibliopole having formerly 
travelled with the earl (then a very young 
man), in the capacity of tutor and companiou 
to his lurdsliip. It was by Lord Glencairn, 
as we have already observed, that Burus 
was introduced to Creech. 



CORRESrONDENCE OF BURNS. 



511 



Page 287, Note 27. — Burns here alludes 
fo his friend and correspoiideiit, for wliom 
he penned some of his best songs, namely, 
Mr. Johnson, the compiler and publisher of 
the Scots' Musical Museum. 

Page 288, Note 28.— Mr. Peter Hill. 
aftcr^wards in business for himself as a book- 
Bellcr, and honoured by the poet's corres- 
pondence. Reared with Mr. Creech, he was 
in his turn, master to Mr. Constable. He 
died at an advanced age in 183G. 

Page 288, Note 29.— This wonderful 
beast had been named Jenny Geddes by the 
poet, in honour of the old woman to whom 
tradition assigns the credit of having cast 
the first stool at the dean's head in St. 
Giles's church, July 23, 1637, when the 
liturtty imposed on Scotland by Charles I. 
was first read. 

Page 2S8, Note 30. — Auchtertyre was 
the seat of Sir William Murray, Bart., situ- 
ated in a picturesque and romantic district, 
a few miles from Crieff. The son and suc- 
cessor of the then proprietor, namely. Sir 
George Murray, was subsequently a mem- 
ber of Pitt's administration, as Secretary for 
the Colonies. 

Page 288, Note 31. — This was Auch- 
tertyre, near Stirling, on the banks of the 
1'eith. Mr. Kamsay was not only an accom- 
plished scholar, and remarkable for his 
distinguished classical attainments and re- 
fined taste ; but was possessed with a warm 
national enthusiasm, in favour of the simple 
and truthful imagery and diction of the less 
polished literature of his own country. 

Page 289, Note 32.— Mr. Cruikshank, 
of the High School, Edinburgh, and the 
father of the fair Miss Cruikshank whom 
Burns has so delicately celebrated in his 
song of the Rosebud. 

Page 290, Note 33. — Mr. Ainslie was 
educated to the profession of the law, and 
subsequently became a writer to the Signet, 
in Edinburgh. He survived the poet nearly 
half a century, and died at Eiiinliurgh, on 
the 11th of April 1838, at the advanced age 
of seventy-two years. At the time in 
question, he was barely over twenty. He 
had accompanied Burns on his poetical ex- 
cursion through the southern or border 
districts. 

Page 291, Note 34.— ;Mr. Andrew 
Bruce, of the North Bridge, Edinburgh. 

Page 291, Note 35.— Hugh, the neigh- 
bour's herdsman, who cuts such a quaint 
figure in the poem of Poor Muilie, Burns's 
pet ewe. 

Page 291, Note 36.— Miss Charlotte 
Hamilton subsequently married Dr. Adair, 



a physician, at Harrowgate, and survived the 

poet nearly forty years. She was celebrated 
by the poet in the song entitled the Baulct 
of the Devon. 

Page 291, Note 37.— Mr. Hamilton's 
son, who figures in the poem entitled The 
Dedicntion, by the designation of fVee curlie 
Johnnie. 

Page 292, Note 38.— IWr. Walker was 
employed by the Duke of Athole, at his 
seat of Blair Athole, iu the capacity of tutor 
to his grace's children. it w^as at Blair 
Athole that Burns had first met him, and 
become acquainted with him, only a few 
days before the date of this letter, that is, in 
the month of September, 1787, in the course 
of one of his Highland excursions. 

Page 292, Note 39.— The poet here 
alludes to the lines entitled the Address of 
Bruar Hater to the Duke of Athole. It will 
be remembered that in a previous allusion to 
this subject, we stated that the spot was 
originally bare and unadornetl by plantations, 
for which the capabdities of the landscape so 
especially fitted this beautiful spot. Burns 
was the first who suggested to the Duke 
the bestowal of a little art in laying out this 
portion of his estate in ornamental grounds 
— a suggestion which the Duke quickly 
adopted. 

Page 292, Note 40.— The Duchess ot 
Athole of the time being, was the daughter 
of Charles, Lord Cathcart (the ninth of the 
title}, and the " little angel hand," of which 
Burns speaks with such fervour, were 
severally, the Lady Charlotte JMurray, then 
only twelve years of age, and subsequently 
married to Sir John Menzies, of Castle 
Menzies ; Lady Amelia Murray, then seven 
years of age, and subsequently married to 
the Lord Viscount Strathallan; and lastly. 
Lady Elizabeth Murray, tiien only five 
months old (an infant in arms), and since 
married to Macgregor Murray, of Lanrick. 

Page 292, Note 41. — The valley ot 
Strathspey has given its name to the dancinc; 
tunes in quick time, so popular in Scotland, 
and especially in the Highlands, and which 
derived their origin remotely from this 
district. 

Page 292, Note 42. — Stonehaven, some- 
times also called Stonehive, by the people of 
the country. 

Page 292, Note 43. — The youngest 
daughter of the late James Chalmers, Esq., 
of Finglaud. She married, December 9, 
1788, Lewis Kay, Esq., of the banking firm 
of Sir WilUam Forbes, James Hunter, and 
Company, Edinburgh. Mrs. Hay has siuca 
resided at Pau, iu the south of Erance. 



SIS 



NOTES TO THE 



Page 293, Note 44. — The second num- 
ber of the Scots Musical Museuin, edited 
and published by Joliuson. 

1'age 20.'), Note 45. — These son^s, which 
Burns enthusiastically aduiired, were the 
works of the Rev. John Skinner, the epis- 
copalian officiating minister At Longside, 
near Peterhead. 

Page 291, Note 46. — Hoy waa librarian 
to the Duke of Gordon for forty-six years 
antecedent to his death in 1828. He was a 
simple, pure-hearted man, of the Dominie 
Sampson genus, and had attracted the regard 
of Burns during the short stay of the poet 
at Gordon Castle. 

Page 294, Note 47. — Alexander, fourth 
Duke of Gordon, who entertained Burns at 
Gordon Castle, possessed considerable abili- 
ties for song writing, though few of his 
verses have been made public. The song 
alluded to by Burns seems to have been ob- 
tained from Mr. Hoy, sa it appears in 
Johnson's second volume. 

Page 296, Note 48. Mr. Charles Hay, 
afterwards Lord Newton. He was a man of 
much wit, and not by any means delicieut of 
learuuig iu the abstruser questions of his 
profession. That his qualifications as a 
lawyer were by uo means contemptible, his 
subsequent attainment of a judgeship suffi- 
cieutly testifies. In his earlier days, and at 
the period of his correspondence with the 
poet, however, he was probably more strongly 
given to the bottle, the song and the 
repartee, thau to very deep questions of 
jurisprudence. 

Page 296, Note 49.— The Charlotte 
here meant was Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
sister of Mr. Gavin Hamilton, the poet's firm 
friend. 

Page 297, Note 50.— Alluding to the 
■ong dedicated to Miss Chalmers, and of 
which the initiatory line runs thus : — 

" Where braving angry winter's storms." 

Page 298, Note 51 — It is not impro- 
bable that the locality illustrated in tiiese 
lines, to wit, Gleiiap, had some considerable 
share in the deep interest which they excited 
in the mind of Burns. Glenap is a small 
place ill the southern part of Ayrsliire, and 
the local associations were no doubt powerful 
to render any song which celebrated them 
interesting in the eyes of Burns. 

Page 298, Note 52. — After a long and 
honourable practice as a surgeon at Irvine, 
Mr. Mackenzie, who had there occupied every 
honourable post in the tovvnship, finally (in 
1827) retired to the metropolis, where he 
loniiuued to reside until hiit death, on the 



11th of January, 1337. In the course of hia 

medical career, he sought and attained a 
physician's diploma, and it was by him (as 
Dr. Mackenzie) that Burns was presented to 
Professor Dugald Stewart, also a warm 
friend, and great admirer of the genius ol 
the Scottish Bard. Further details on the 
subject of Burns's intimacy with these two 
worthy and distinguished contemporaries, 
may be gathered from the particulars afforded 
in the memoir which forms the first part of 
this volume. 

Page 295, Note 53.— Miss Williams 
had, in the previous month of June, addressed 
a letter of compliment to Burns, which may 
be found in the Edinbargh Mai/azlne for Sej)- 
tember, 1817, where the letter in the text also 
appeared for the first time, along with the fol- 
lowing note by the editor, Mr. Thomas Pringle 
— "The critique, though not without sums 
traits of his usual sound judgment and dis- 
crimination, appears on the whole to be much 
iu the strain of those gallant and flattering 
responses which men of genius usually find 
it incumbent to issue, when consulted upon 
the productions of their female admirers." 

Page 300, Note 54. — This was the per- 
son whom Burns, iu his autobiographical 
letter to Dr. Moore, describes as his com- 
panion at Irvine — whose mind was fraught 
with every manly virtue, and who, neverthe- 
less, was the means of making him regard 
illicit love with levity. 

Page 301, Note 55. — Mrs. McLohose, 
80 well known to those who are conversant 
with the life aud works of Burns, under the 
fictitious name of Clarinda. 

Page 301, Note 56. — This, according 
to the arrangement of Motherwell, is the first 
of the letters extant, and addressed by Robert 
Burns to Mrs. McLehose, although it had 
previously been published as the second. 
The date, according to the same authority, 
must have been December 6tli, 1787, to 
which it is added, that the poet " was to have 
drunk tea with her on that day, but was dis- 
appointed by the lady, who afterwards 
repeated her invitation for Saturday (the next 
day but one), when he was once more disap- 
pointed, in consequence of the accident 
which confined him to his room for sev/j-al 
weeks, and by which his leg was aerious/y 
injured. 

Page 302, Note 57. — If our conjecture 
as to the date of the foregoing letter bo cor- 
rect, as stated in the Note, number 56, it is 
obvious that this note must have been written 
aud despatched on Saturday, the 8th of De- 
cember, 1787. We are confirmed as to the 
date of these letters, by those addressed to 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



619 



others of his correspondents, and to Miss I " Limheart,\ith Nijvemher,17B7. 

Chahners in particular,towhichBurushadpre- "Sir — Your kind return without date, but 
fixed dates, and which have definitely pointed of post-mark October 23th, came to my hand 
to Saturday, December tlie 8th, 1787, as the ! only this day; and, to testify my puncuialitj 



day upon which the accident occurred, by 
■«hich his leg was injured. We have already 
stated that Mrs. McLehose had deferred re- 
ceiving Bums on the Thursday previous, and 
had named this day (Saturday) to receive him 
instead. 

Page 302, Note 58.— The letter of the 
21st of December, to which Burns here 
alludes, has been lost, and we can only infer 
the contents from the context of the present 
letter, and from the reply in Terse which he 
received from JNIrs. McLehose in the lines 
beginning — 

" Talk not of love, it gives me pain," &c. 

Tliis letter was the first of that series which 
was signed witli the Arcadian name of 
" Clarinda," and wiiich Burns here repeats 
with marked emphasis. 

Page 303, Note 59. — Judging from the 
facts communicated, or alluded to, or from 
the contents of other letters, evidently of the 
same period, this letter must have been 
written between the 31st of December 1787, 
and the 3rd of January 1788. It would 
almost seem as if we had lost some of the 
intermediary notes; but it is also evident 
that there could not have been a very volu- 
minous series of letters intervening between 
that of December 21st and this one. 

Page 306, Note 60.— The date of this 
letter was probably before the 20th of 
January, and it might possibly have been as 
early as the eighth of the same month ; we 
can only infer ambiguously from the context, 
and the circumstances which transpire in 
Other letters of the same period. A contem- 
porary of both Burns and Clarinda, has 
definitely fixed this letter for the 12th of 
January 1788, but upon what grounds I do 
not precisely know ; possibly, however, from 
some occurrence of circumstances which 
might have rendered the date conclusive. 

Page 308, Note 61.— An allusion to 
the novel of Fielding, entitled Amelia, to 
which Clarinda had drawn his attention 
especially. 

Page 310, Note 62.— Burns here alludes 
to the song of which the opening line is 



" Clirinda, mistress of my soul." 
Page 314, Note 63.— This letter was a 
reply to the subjoined letter, received by 
Burns from !Mr. Skinner, in which he alludes 
to a project for the publication of a complete 
collectioa of Scottish songs : — 

45* 



to my poetic engagement, I sit down imme- 
diately to answer it in kind. Your acknow- 
ledgment of my poor but just encomiums on 
your surprising genius, and your opinion of 
my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by 
far too high. The difference between our two 
tracks of education and ways of life is entirely 
in your favour, and gives you the preference 
in every manner of way. I know a classical 
education will not create a versifying taste, 
I ut it mightily improves and assists it; and 
though, where both these meet, there may 
sometimes be ground for approbation, yet 
where taste appears single, as it were, and 
neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
1 will always sustain the justice of its prior 
claim to applause. A small portion of taste, 
this way, 1 have had almost from childhood 
especially in the old Scottish dialect : and it 
is as old a thing as 1 remember, my fondness 
for ' Christ-kirk o' the Green,' which I had 
by heart ere I was twelve years of agq, and 
which, some j'ears ago, I attempted to turn 
into Latin verse. While I was young, I 
dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, 
on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty 
much over, till my daughters grew up, who, 
being all good singers, plagued me for words 
to some of their favourite tiHies, and so ex. 
torted these eti'usions, which have made a 
public appearance beyond my expectations, 
and contrary to my intentions, at the same 
t ra" that I hope there is nothing to be found 
in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the 
cloth, which I would always wish to see 
respected. 

" As to the assistance you propose from me 
in the undertaking you are engaged in, I am 
sorry I cannot give it so far as 1 could wish, 
and you perhaps expect. My daughters, 
who were my only intelligencers, are al) 
foris-familiate, and the old woman their 
mother has lost that taste. There are two 
from ray own pen, which I might give you, 
if worth the while. One to the old Scotch 
tune of ' Dumbarton's Drums.' 

'■ The other, perhaps, you have met with, aa 
your noble friend, the duchess, has, 1 am 
told, heard of it. It was squecEed out of 
me by a brother parson in her neighbour- 
hourhood, to accommodate a new Highland 
reel for the Marquis's birth-day to th« 
stanza of 



'Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly,' &c. 
"If this last ansH'er your purpose, yoi 




<i^^ 



iiii!ii:i!niiiiiiiuniiiiiiiiiiRiiii;iyiiiiiii:i!iiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiii»iiiiniiii!iiiii!iiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii^^ 




S20 



NOTES TO THE 



may have it from a brother o. mine, Mr. 
James Skitiner, writer, in Edinburgh, who, 
I believe, can give the music too. 

" There is another humorous thing, I have 
heard said to be done b}' the Cathohc priest 
Geddes, and which hit my taste much : — 

' There was a wee wifeikie, was coming frae 
the fair. 

Had gotten a Httle drapikie, which bred 
her meikle care. 

It took upo' the wifie't heart, and she 
began to spew. 

And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna 
foa. 

I wish,' &c., &c. 
"I have heard of another new composition, 
by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, 
that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune 
of 'The humours of Glen,' which I fear 
won't do, as the music, I am told, is of Irish 
original. I have mentioned these, such as 
they are, to show my readiness to oblige 
yon, and to contribute my mite, if I could, 
to the patriotic work you have in hand, and 
which I wish all success to. You have only 
to notify your mind, and what you want of 
the above, slvall be sent you. 

" Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I 
<uay say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
nave seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue 
and morality, delivered in your amusing 
style, and from such as you, will operate 
more than dozens would do from such as 
me, who shall be told it is our employment, 
»nd be never more minded : whereas, from 
JL pen like yours, as being one of the many, 
what comes will be admired. Admiration 
will produce regard, and regard will leave an 
impression, especially whea example goes 
along with it. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred. 
Else, by ray troth, I'll no be glad ; 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 

And sic like fry. 
Maun aye be harland in their trade. 

And sae maun I. 

"Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all 
auccess, and, in my other character, all 
happiness and heavenly direction, I remain, 
with esteem, your sincere friend, 

"John Skinner." 

Page 314, Note 64. — Dr. Webster was 
the officiating minister of the Scottish Epis- 
copalian Church, at Edinburgh. 

Page 315, Note 65. — The "Two fair 
■pirits uf the Hill' tUuded to^ ware Miss 



Sophia Brodie, and Miss Rose, of Kilviv 
rock. 

Page 316, Note 66.— "The letters to 
Richard Brown, written at a period when 
the poet was in the full blaze of reputation, 
showed that he was at no time so dazzled 
with success, as to forget the friends who 
had anticipated the public by discovering hii 
merit." — Walker. 

Page 316, Note 67. — An intervening 
letter, which probably bore date about the 
23rd of February, has not transpired. We 
are led to the conviction that such a letter, 
did exist, from the context and the allusions 
contained in this letter. 

Page 317, Note 68. — Burns here alludei 
to Mr. James Tenuant, of Glenconner, in 
Ayrshire, to whom he addressed a brief 
poem (which will be found in its proper 
place in this volume). It was the same Mr. 
James Tennant, who had previously in- 
spected other farms which Bui-ns conteia- 
plated hiring. 

Page 320, Note 69. — It is probable from 
the allusions contained in this letter that it 
was written after the brief visit of the poet 
to Edinburgh, in which he finally concluded 
the bargain with Mr. INIiller, to take the farm 
of Ellisland. It was on the 13th of March, 
that this contract was closed ; and judging 
from circumstances, the date of this letter 
would have been about the 18th of March, 
1788. Burns did not see Mrs. McLehose 
in this instance, and appears even to have 
avoided an interview, for private reasons. 

Page 322, Note 70. — The words iv. 
question, are those which bear the title ol 
the Chevallier's Lament. 

Page 322, Note 71. — ^The allusion here 
made is to his marriage with Jean Armour. 

Page 326, Note 72. — Burns, of course, 
again alludes to his marriage with Jean 
Armour. 

Page 326, Note 73.— Alluding to the 
death of Mr. Samuel Mitchelson. wiiter to 
the Signet in Edinburgh, who had been the 
friend and master of Sir. Ainslie, and wliich 
occurred on the 21st of June, 1788. 

Page 327, Note 74. — Burns alludes to 
a parcel of books, which his friend, Mr. Hill, 
had sent to him as a present. 

Page 328, Note 75.— Mr. David 
Ramsay, the printer, and publisher, ol 
the Edinburgk Evening Courant. 

Page 328, Note 76.— The Crothallan 
Fencibles, a select club of wits and conge- 
nial spirits, to which Burns belonged, and to 
which he very frequently alludes. 

Page 328, Note 77.— Mr. Alexandei 
Cunningham, jeweller, of Edinburgh, • 





iiiiiiiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



62X 



fliuhial friend of Robert Burns and George 
TSomson. 

Page 333, Note 78.— Mr. Morrison 
was a cabinet maker and upholsterer at 
IMiuichline, who had undertaken to furnish 
Buri\s's new house at ElUsland, as soon aa 
it should be completed. 

Page 336, Note 79. — A quay — a heifer. 

Page 339, Note 80.— This letter was a 
reply to one received by Burns from Mr. 
Carfrae, of which the subjoined is a copy : — 

"January 2nd, 1789. 

" Sir — If you have lately seen Mrs. 
Dnnlop, of Dunlop, you have certandy heard 
of the author of the verses which accompany 
this letter. He was a man hii^hly respected 
for every accomplishment and virtue which 
adorns the character of a man or a Chris- 
tian. To a great degree of literature, of 
taste and poetic genius, was added an in- 
vincible modesty of temper, which prevented, 
in a great degree, his figuring in life, and 
confined the perfect knowledge of his 
f haracter and talents to the small circle of 
•lis chosen friends. He v/as untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inilaiuraatory 
fever, in the prime of life ; beloved by all 
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented 
by all who have any regard for virtue or 
genius. There is a woe pronounced in Scrip- 
ture against the person whom all men speak 
well of; if ever that woe fell upon the head 
of mortal man, it fell upon him. He has left 
behind him a considerable number of coin- 
positions, chiefly poetical, sufficient, I ima- 
gine, to make a large octavo volume. In 
particular, two complete and regular trage- 
dies, a farce of three acts, and some smaller 
poems oil different subjects. It falls to my 
share, who have lived in the most intimate 
and uninterrupted friendship with him from 
my youth upwards, to submit to you the 
verses he wrote on the publication of your 
incomparable poems. It is probable they 
were his last, as they were found in his 
escritoire, folded up with the form of a letter 
addressed to you, and, I imagine, were only 
prevented from being sent by himself, by 
that melancholy dispensation which we still 
bemoan. The verses themselves I will not 
pretend to criticise, when writing to a gen- 
tlemen whom I consider as entirely qualitied 
to judge of their merit. They are the only 
verses he seems to have attempted in tlie 
Scottish style ; and I hesitate not to say, in 
general, that they will bring no dishonour 
on the Scottish muse ; and allow me to add, 
that if it is your oniuion they are not uii- 
vorlh^ of the author, and wdl be uo dis- 



credit to you, it is the inclination of Mr. 
Mylnes' friends that they should immodiateiy 
be published in some periodical work, to 
give the world a specimen of what may be 
expected from his performances in the 
poetic line, which perhaps will afterwards be 
published for the advantage of his family. 

" I must beg the favour of a letter from 
you acknowledging the receipt of this, and 
to be allowed to subscribe myself, with 
great regard. Sir, your most obedient 
servant. P. Carfrae." 

Page 340, Note 81.— The piety of thi« 
letter receives a harmonious response from 
the following, addressed on the same day 
by Gilbert Burns to his poetical brother :^ 

" Mossgiel, January 1st, 1789. 

"Dear Brother — I have just finished 
my new-year's-day breakfast in the usual 
form, which naturally makes me call t*" 
mind the days of former years, and thii 
society in which we used to begin them; 
and when I look at our family vicissitudes, 
'through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed,' I cannot help remarking to you, 
my dear brother, how good the God of 
Seasons is to us, and that, however some 
clouds may seem to lower over the portion 
of time before us, we have great reason to 
hope that all will turn out well. 

"Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the 
season to you and l\Irs. Burns, and beg you 
will remember us in the same manner to 
William, the first time you see him. I am, 
dear brother, yours, Gilbert Burns." 

Page 342, Note 83. — Alexander Geddes, 
born at Arradowl, in Banffshire, in 1737, 
was reared as a Catholic clergyman, and long 
officiated in that capacity in his native 
country, and elsewhere. As humbly born 
as Burns, he possessed much of his strong 
and eccentric gcmus, and it is not surpris- 
ing that he and the Ayrshire bard sliould 
have become friends. After 1780, his life 
was spent in London, chiefly under the 
fostering patronage of a generous Catholic 
nobleman, Lord Petre. The heterodox 
opinions of Dr. Geddes, his extraordinary 
attempts to translate the Bible, and his 
numerous fugitive publications on contro- 
versial divinity, made much noise at the 
time ; but he is now only remembered for 
some successful Scotch verses. This singular 
man died in London, February 20th, 1802, 
in the "-jxty-fifth year of his age. 

Page 342, Note 83. — A copy of Burns's 
Poems, belonging to Dr. Geddes, into which 
the poet had transferred some of hia more 



022 



NOTES TO THE 



recent verses. The volume has since been 
in the possession of Mrs. Hislop, Fiiisbury 
Square, London. 

Pagf 343, Note 84. — Burns here alludes 
to his life's svster-in-law, namely, the wife 
of Mr. Adam Armour, a mason, at Mauch- 
line (and brother to Mrs. Burns). Mrs. 
Adam Armour survived the poet nearly half 
B century. 

Page 344, Note 85. — The followinj? is 
the letter to which the above was an answer. 
Dr. Cnrrie has unfortunately suppressed 
the name of this correspondent of our 
poet : — 

"London, August 5ih, 1789. 

"My Dear Siu — Excuse me when I say, 
that the uncommon abilities wliich you 
possess must render your correspondence 
very acceptable to any one. T can assure 
you I am particularly proud of yotir partiality, 
and shall endeavour, by every method in my 
power, to merit a continuance of your 
politeness. 

* • • • • 

" When you can spare a few moments, I 

should be proud of a letter from you, directed 
for me, Gerard Street, Soho. 

* « « • 

"I cannot express my happiness suffi- 
ciently at the instance of your attachment 
to my late inestimable friend. Bob Fergus- 
sen, who was particularly intimate with 
myself and relations. While I recollect 
with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and 
many amiable qualities, it affords me the 
greatest consolation that I am honoured 
with the correspondence of his successor in 
national simplicity and genius. That Mr. 
Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must 
readily be admitted ; but, notwithstanding 
many favourable representations, I am yet 
to learn that he inherits his convivial 
powers. 

"There was such a richness of conver- 
sation, such a plentitude of fancy and 
■ttraotion in him, that when I call the happy 
period af our intercourse to my m.emory, I 
feel mysdf in a state of delirium. I was 
then younger than him by eight or ten 
years, but his manner was so felicitious, that 
he enraptured every person around him, 
and infused into the hearts of the young 
and old, the spirit and animation which 
operated on his own mind. I am, dear Sir, 
your's, &c. 

Page 344, Notp 86.— Mr. Edward 
Neilson, officiating Presbyterian ^Minister of 
the church of Kirkbean, in the Stewartry of 
Kirkcuibright. 



Page 345, Note 87.— Suljoined ia Dt 

Moore's reply to this letter : — 

-Cliffurd Street, June lOth, 1789. 

"Dear Sir — I thank you fortlie differ- 
ent communications you have made me ol 
your occasional productions in manuscript, 
all of which have merit, and some of them 
merit of a difTerent kind from what appears 
in the poems you have published. You 
ought carefully to preserve all your occasional 
productionf;, to correct and improve them at 
your leisuve ; and when you can select as 
wsjiy cf these as will make a volume, pub- 
lish it either at Edinburgh or London by 
STibscription : on such an occasion, it may 
be in my power, as it is very much in my 
inclination, to be of service to you. 

" If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, 
that, in your future productions, you should 
abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and 
adopt the measure and language of modern 
English poetry. 

"The stanza which you use in imitation 
of ' Christ's Kirk on the green," with the 
tiresome repetition of ' that day,' is fatiguing 
to English ears, and I should thuik not very 
agreeable to Scottish. 

" All the fine satire and humour of your 
' Holy Fair,' is lost on the English ; yet with- 
out more trouble to yourself, you could have 
conveyed the whole to them. The same is 
true of some of your other poems. In your 
epistle to J. Smith, the stanzas of that be- 
ginning with this line 'This life so far's I 
understand,' to that which ends with 'short 
while it grieves,' are easy flowing gaily 
philosophical and of Hora\>m elegance : — the 
language is English, with a few Scottish 
words, and some of those so harmonious as 
to add to the beauty : for what poet would 
not prefer gloamiiif) to twilight ? 

" I imagine by carefully keeping, and 
occasionally polishing and correcting those 
verses which the muse dictates, you will, 
within a year or two, have another volume 
as large as the first ready for the press ; and 
this, without diverting you from every 
proper attention to the study and practice of 
husbandry, in which I understand you are 
very learned, and which I fancy you will 
choose to adhere to as a wife, whilst poetrj 
amuses you from time to time likeri mistress. 

"The former, like a prudent wife, must 
not show ill-humour, although you retain a 
sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, 
and pay her occasional visits, which in no 
manner alienates your heart from your 
lawful spouse, but tends, ou the cointrary, XM 
promote her iatereat. 







^^f^ 




CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



523 



"I desired Mr. ladell to write to Mr 
Creei;'i to send you a copy of Zeluco. This 
perfor-inance has had great success here ; 
but I ihall be glad to have your opinion of 
it, because I value your opinion, and because 
I krjnv you are above saying what you do 
not 'hinlc. 

" 1 beg you will offer my best wishes to 
my very good friend Jlrs. Hamilton, who, I 
unde-stand, is your neighbour. If she is as 
happy as I wish her, she is happy enough. 
Mat? my coraplin^euts also to Mrs. Burns ; 
and believe me to be, with sincere esteem, 
dea; Sir, your's," &c. &c. 

PvGE 346, Note 88.— The husband of 
thi* lady was chamberlain to the Uuke of 
Qu-.€usberry, at whose house of Drumlanrig 
tilt family consequently lived. The beauti- 
ful daughters of Mr. and Mrs. M'Murdo are 
th'^ heroines of several of Burns's songs. 

.?AGE 347, Note 89. — Burns had also 
eei t a copy of the lines transcribed in this 
let' er to Dr. Gregory, for his opinion of 
tht ir merit or demerit, to which Dr. Gregory 
re) lied as follows : — 

"Edinburgh, June 2nd, 1789. 

'Dear Sir — I take the first leisure 
h<Hir I could commana, to thank you for 
your letter, and the copy of verses enclosed 
in it. As there is real poetic merit, I mean 
both fancy and tenderness, and some happy 
expressions in them, I think they will 
deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully, and polish them to the utmost. This 
1 am sure you can do if you please, for you 
have great command both of expression and 
of rhymes : and you may iudge, from the two 
last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's poetry that I 
five you, how much correctness and high 
polish enhance the value of such com[)o- 
sitions. As you desire it, I shall, with 
great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
criticism on your verses. I wish you would 
give me another edition of them, much 
amended, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, 
who. I am sure, will have much pleasure in 
reading it. Pray give me likewise for my- 
self, and her too, a copy (as much amended 
Bs you please) of the ' Water Fowl on Loch 
Turit.' 

" ' The Wounded Hare ' is a pretty good 
iubject ; but the measure or stanza you 
have chosen for it is not a good one ; it does 
not flow well ; and the rhyme of the fourth 
line is almost lost by its distance from the 
first, and the two interposed close rhymes. 
If I were you, I would put it into a different 
■tanza yet. 

" Stanaa 1. The execrations in the first 



too lines are two strong or coarse; but they 
may pass. ' Murder-aiming' is a bad com- 
pound epithet, and not very intellif^ibh 
' Blood-stained in stanza iii. line 4, has the 
same fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely 
better. You have accustomed yourself to 
such epithets, and have no notion how stiff 
and quaint they appear to others, and how 
incongruous with poetic fancy and tender 
sentiments. Suppose Pope had WTitten, 
' Why that blood-stained bosom gored,' how 
would you have liked it ? Form is neither 
a poetic, nor a dignified, nor a plain common 
word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; un- 
suitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 

" 'Ma.'gled' is a coarse word. 'Innocent,' 
in this sense, is a nursery word, but both 
may pass. 

" Stanza 4. 'Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow?' will not do 
at all : it is not grammar — it is not intelli- 
gible. Do you mean, ' provide for that life 
which the mother had bestowed and used to 
provide for?' 

" There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
' Feeling ' (I suppose) for ' Fellow,' in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong ; it is but a colloquial and 
vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. 
' Shot ' is improper too. On seeing a person 
(or a sportsman) wound a hare; it is need- 
less to add with what weapon ; but if you 
think otherwise, you should say, with a 
fowling-piece. 

" Let me see yoa when you come to town, 
and I will show you some more of Mrs' 
Hunter's poems." 

" It must be admitted, that this criticism is 
not more distinguished by its good sense, 
than by its freedom from ceremony. It is 
impossible not to smile at the manner iu 
which the poet may be supposed to iiave 
received it. In fact, it appears, as the sailors 
say, to have thrown him quite alack. In a 
letter which he wrote soon after, he says, ' Dr. 
Gregory is a good man, but he cruellies me.' 
And again, ' I believe in the iron justice of 
Di* Gregory ; but, like the devils, I believe 
and tremble ' However, he profited by 
these criticisms, as the reader will find by 
comparing this first edition of the poem with 
that elsewhere published." — Currie. 

Page 350, Note 90.~This lady had 
been introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore. 
It was Miss Helen Maria Williams. 

Page 351 Note 91. — Subjoined is Miss 
Williams reply to this letter : — 

AuguM Itli, 1789. 

" Dbak Sir — ^I do not lose a ntoment u 



fi24 



NOTES TO THE 



returning you my sincere acknowledgments 
for your letter, and your criticism on my 
poem, which is a very flattering proof that 
you have read it with attention. I think 
your objections are perfectly just, except in 
one instance. 

"You have indeed been very profuse of 
panegyric on my little performance. A 
much less portion of applause from you 
would have been gratifying to me ; since I 
think its value depends entirely upon the 
source from whence it proceeds — the iv;- 
cense of praise, like other incense, is more 
grateful from the quality than the quantity 
of the odour. 

" I hope you still cultivate the pleasures 
of poetry, which are precious, even indepen- 
dent of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the 
most valuable property of poetry, is its 
power of disengaging the mind from worldly 
cares, and leadnig the imagination to the 
richest springs of intellectual enjoyment; 
since, however frequently life may be 
chequered with gloomy scenes, those who 
truUy love the muse can always find one 
little path adorned with flowers and cheered 
by sunshine." 

Page 351, Note 92. — Mr. John Logan, 
of Knockshinnock, Glen Afton, in the 
tounty of Ayr. 

Page 354, Note 93. — Burns had in 
this place alluded, with extreme acrimony, 
to the Duke of Queensberry, whom he has 
elsewhere also dealt with, with exemplary 
severity. Dr. Currie, however, prudently 
erased the passage. 

Page 355, Note 94. — Lady Winifred 
Constable was at this time the lineal 
representative of the House of Constable, of 
Nithsdale, and was an uncornpromising 
Jacobite in politiral opinions. Sir Walter 
Scott, in alluding to this letter, which he 
sent to Mr. Lockhart, rallies the opinions of 
Burns as expressed to that "quaint old 
curmudgeon. Lady W. Constable." 

Page 356, Note 95. — Burns here alludes 
to the lines addressed to Mr. V.^illiam 
Tytler. 

Page 356, Note 96. — An allusion to 
the ex officio leadership of the provost in the 
Marjorie of the Many Locks, and to the 
recent political excitement of the district. 

Page 356, Note 97. — In the song "I 
gaed a waefu' gate yestreen," Burns has 
celebrated one of the daughters of this 
gentleman. He was the minister of the 
church of Lochmaben. 

Page 357, Note 98.— "This letter is 
extracted from the third volume of Sir 
ivitu Sinclair's Statistical Account of 



Scotland, p. 593. — It was enclosed to Sil 
John by Mr. Faddel himself, in the following 
letter, also printed there : — 

'Sir John — I enclose you a letter, 
written by Mr. Burns, as an addition to the 
sccount of Bunscore parish. It contains an 
account of a small library which he was so 
good (at my desire) as to set on foot, in the 
barony of Moiikland, or Friars Carse, in this 
parish. As its utility has been felt, par- 
ticularly among the younger class of people, 
I tiiink that if a similar plan were established 
in the diff'erent parishes of Scotland, it would 
tend greatly to the speedy improvement 
of tiie tenantry, tradespeople, and work- 
people. Mr. Br.rns was so good as to take 
the whole charge of this small concern. He 
was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this 
little society, who will long have a grateful 
sense of his public spirit and exertions for 
their improvement and information. I have 
the honour to be. Sir John, your's most 
sincerely, Robert Riddel." 

— CuRRiB. Mr. Cminingham adds, that 
the minister of Dunscore probably omitted 
to notice the Monkland library scheme, 
from dislike to the kind of literature patro- 
nised by it. 

Page 353, Note 99. — It was Mr. 
William Dunbar, who had presented a copy 
of Spenser's Poems to Burns. 

Page 359, Note 100. — Ac allusion to « 
ballad, in which one of the ladies in waiting 
to Mary Queen of Scots, is described as 
having murdered her illegitimate child, and 
as having undergone capital punishment 
in consequence. The stanza here quoted 
are the supposed last expressions which 
escaped her at the moment of execution. 
Mary Queen of Scots had, however, curious 
enough, four attendants of the same Christian 
name as her own. 

Page 359, Note lOL— Francis, the 
second son of the poet, to whom Mrs. 
Duiilop had stood as godmother. 

Page 359, Note 102. — Burns here 
alludes to an unfortunate wonian, whose 
laxity had exposed her to some excess of 
severity from the Magistrates of Edinburgh, 
in which Creech had been one of the most 
active persons. Tiie treatment to which she 
had been subjected had been so severe, indeed, 
as to awaken general sympathy in her behalf. 

Page 360, Note 103. — Perhaps no set 
of men more effectually avail themselves of 
the easy credulity of the public, than a 
certain idescriptiou of Paternoster Row 
booksellers. Three hundred and odd 
engravings !- 1 and by the iiitt artist* iJi 




(M^i0h 




CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



51:1 



liOndon, too ! — No wonder that Burns was 
dazzled hy the splendour of the promise. It 
is no unusual thing; for this class of im- 
postors to illustrate the Holy Scriptures by 
plates originally engraved for the History of 
England, and I have actually seen subjects 
designed by our celebiated artist Stothard, 
from Clarissa Harlowe and the Novelist's 
Magazine, converted, with incredible dex- 
terity, by these bookselling Breslaws, into 
Scriptural embellishments I One of these 
venders of ' Famdy Bibles ' lately called on 
me, to consult me professionally about a folio 
engraving he brought with him. It repre- 
sented Mons. Buffon, seated, contemplating 
various groups of animals that surrounded 
him : he merely wished, he said, to be 
informed whether, by imclothing the natu- 
ralist, and giving him a rather more resolute 
look, the plate could not, at a trifling expense, 
be made to pass for ' Daniel in the Lions' 
Den ! ' " — Cromek. 

Page 361, Note 104.— This letter will 
be the better understood, when it is added 
that Burns had a very short time before 
received the subjoined letter from Mr. Cun- 
ningham : — • 

" 20th January, 1790. 

" In some instances it is reckoned unpar- 
donable to quote any one's own words ; but 
the value I have for your friendship, nothing 
can more truly or more elegantly express than 

* Time but the impression stronger makes. 
As streams their channels deeper wear.' 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only 
framed upon the chapter of accidents turning 
up against me, as it too often does, in the 
trivial, and I may with truth add, the more 
important affairs of life ; but I shall continue 
occasionally to inform you what is going on 
among the circle of your friends in these 
parts. In these days of merriment, I have 
frequently heard your name proclaimed at 
the jovial board, under the roof of our 
hospitable frieud at Stenhouse-miUs ; there 
were no 

* Lingering momeats number'd with care.' 

I saw your ' Address to the New-year,' in 
the Bunifries Journal. Of your productions 
I shall say nothing ; but ray acquaintances 
aJlege that when your name is mentioned, 
which every man of celebrity must know 
ofteu happens, I am the champion, the 
Mendoza, against all snarling critics and 
narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a few on 
this planet do crawl. 



"With best compliments to your wife, and 
her black-eyed sister, I remain yours, &c." 

Page 302, Note 105. — A letter to Lady 
Harriet Don, quoted by Mr. Cunningham 
iu his edition of Burns, shows that the poet 
was now contemplating dramatic compo- 
sition ; and, with that view, was anxious to 
study the best dramatic authors, English 
and French being the only languages with 
which he was acquainted. 

Page 363, Note 106.— The subject of 
this paper being the existence of peculiar 
attachuients between master and servants, 
avid the anecdote of Albert Blane being 
aptly introduced at the close, as an illustra- 
tion of the writer's views. 

Page 364, Note 107. — The sonnets ol 
Charlotte Smith. 

Page 365, Note 108.— This letter was 
communicated to me, says Cromek, by » 
geutleinan, to whose liberal advice and 
information I am much indebted, JMr. John 
Murdoch, the tutor of the poet, accompanied 
by the following interesting note : — 

"London, Hart- Street, Bloornshury, 
December 2%th, 1807. 
"Dear Sir, — The following letter, which 
I lately found among my papers, I copy for 
your perusal, partly because it is Burns's, 
partly because it makes honourable mention 
of my rational Christian friend, his father; 
and hkewise, because it is rather flattering 
to myself. I glory iu no one thing so much 
as an intimacy with good men : — the friend- 
ship of others reflects no honour. When I 
recollect the pleasure (and I hope benefit) I 
received from the conversation of William 
Burns, especially when on the Lord's day we 
walked together for about two miles to the 
house of prayer, there publicly to adore and 
praise the Giver of all Good, I entertain an 
ardent hope that together we shall ' renew 
the glorious theme in distant worlds,' with 
powers more adequate to the mighty sub- 
ject — the exuberant beneficence of the great 
Creator. But to the letter : — 
[Ilere follows the letter relative to yow^p 
JJllliam Burns.^j 
" I promised myself a deal of happiness ia 
the conversation of my dear young friend ; 
but my promises of this nature generally 
prove fallacious. Two visits were the utmost 
that I received. At one of them, however, 
he repeated a lesson which I had given him 
about twenty years before, when he was a 
mere child, concerning the pity and tender- 
ness due to animals. lo that lesson (which 
it seems was brought to Ihe level of hia 
capacity), he declared himself indebted 6* 






-^i^o'^ii 



0^^ IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIUIIUilliui.iilllllllUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIiaillllllllllllllHH 




62ii 



NOTES TO THE 



almost all the philanthi jpj and general sym- 
pathy he possessed. 

"J^t not parents and teachers iniasiine that 
it is needless to talk, seriously to children. 
Thi'V are sooner fit to be reasoned \vit\i than 
is generally thought. Strong' aud iiuli'lible 
iniprcssujiis are to be made before the mind 
be agitated and ruffled by tlie numerous 
train of distracting cares aud unruly passions, 
wliereby it is frequently rendered almost 
unsusceptible of the principles aud ])recepts 
of rational religion and sound morality. 

"Hut 1 find myself digressing again. Poor 
William! then in the bloom and vigour of 
yout h, caught a putrid fever, and in a few days, 
as real chief mourner, I followed his remains 
to the land of forgetfubiess. 
CnoMKK. "John MuRnocii." 

Page 365, Note 109. — "The preceding 
letter to IMrs. Dunlop, explains the feelings 
under which this was written. The strain 
of indignant invective goes on some tiiue 
longer ni the style which our bard was too 
apt to indulge, and of which the reader has 
already seen so much."— Cukiiie. 

Page 3GG, Note 110. — This fragment, 
first published by Cromek, is placed by him, 
aud subsequent editors, under 1794, aud by 
]Mr. Cunningham is supposed to be addressed 
to Dr. Itobeit Anderson, the editor of the 
British Poets. We have little doubt that 
the gentleman addressed was Dr. James 
Anderson, « well-known agricultural and mis- 
cellaneous writer, and the editor of a 
weekly miscellany entitled "The Bee." This 
publication was commenced in Edinburgh, 
December, 1790, aud concluded in January 
1794, when it formed eighteen volumes. 
The above letter by Burns, from the allu- 
sion it makes to his extreme occupation by 
business, as well as from the bitterness 
of its tone, seems to have been written in 
the latter part of 1790, immediately after the 
poet had commenced Exciseuum ; it was an 
answer, probably, to an ajiplication for aid 
in the conduct of "The Bee," then about to 
be started. For these reasons, the present 
editor iias shifted its place in the poet's 
correspondence. 

Page 307, Note 111. — Susan, one of 
Mrs. Uunlop's daughters, had married a 
French gcntlenum of rank and fortune, of 
the name of Henri, aud this letter of the 
poet's was written to IMrs. Dunloj), upon the 
receipt of intelligence that Madame Ileuri 
had given birth to a child some months after 
the death of the father, who had died in 
consccpicnce of an inflammatory disease en- 
pendered by exposure to wet. M. Henri 
died ou the 22ud of June, 1790, aud his 



Posthumous Child was bcrn nn the 4th of 

November in the same year. Both Mra 
Dnidop's daughter and her son-in-law were 
residing at Ijinulon Castle, in Ayrshire. 
The letter of Burns, enclosed also the lines 
entitled, " Stanzas on the Birthday of a 
Posthuums Chdd." In one of the following 
letters of Hums to IMrs. Dunlop, lie alludes 
to the perilous situation of iSladame Henri, 
who had been compelled to proceed to France, 
for the purpose of disposing of some family 
affairs of her deceased husband, just at the 
time when the most frightful excesses of the 
Revolution were being perpetrated. Madame 
Henri never returned to England, as she 
died not many months after her arrival in 
France. To this melancholy occurreiu;o 
Burns again alludes in another letter to Mrs. 
Dunlop. Madame Henri had left her orphan 
child under the care of her deceased husband's 
father, M. Henri the elder; but he being 
shortly afterwards compelled to take refuge 
in Switzerland, had been obliged to leave his 
grandchild behind him ; and no tidings were 
heard of this child until some years after- 
wards, when the grandfather was enabled to 
return to the enjoyment of his property. la 
the interim of time which ha<l elapsed, the 
child had been reared by a person of tlio 
name of Susette, previously a female servant 
of the household of M. Henri the elder ; aud 
she, though compelled to provide for her 
orphan charge at the cost of her own toil, 
had constantly observed all the delicate 
attentions which could possibly have beea 
enjoyed, had his family been in the full 
enjoyment of their raidc and possessions. 
This grandson of Mrs. Dunlop subsequently 
returned to Scotland for a short time, but 
eontiuued to reside permanently at the 
chateau which he had inherited from his 
paternal grandfather ; and his faithful pre- 
server long survived to enjoy the gratefu. 
recompense of her fidelity. 

Pack 3(J8, Note 112. — One of the Stiper- 
visors-General of Excise. 

Page 3G8, Note 113.— Mr. Charles 
Sharpe, to whom this letter was addressed 
by Burns, was the father of the Charles 
Kirkpatrick Sharpe, the intimate friend of 
Sir Walter Scott, aud the contributor of 
several very beautiful original ballads to the 
Border Miimirelsy. 

Page 3G9, Note 114. — Burns here 
alludes to a box or ca.sket presented to hiiu 
by Lady W. Constable, iu the lid of which 
was a portrait of Mary Q,ueeu of Scots, 
supposed to have been original. Some yeai» 
ago, according to Chambers, one of the sons 
of the poet, in Lsapiug ou board a vessel ii 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



525 



fiidia had the misfortune to break this box, 
t;i(l iireparubly daraafce tlie portrait. 

I'AKE 3G9, Note 115.— The President of 
tJie Convivial Club, called the Crochallau 
Fcnciblea, was otiicially kuown by the desig- 
liatinii of Colonel. 

r.vGE 370, Note 116.— This letter was 
a reply to the subjoined letter from Mr. 
Tjitler .— 

" Dear Sir — Mr. Hill yesterday put into 
my hands a sheet of 'Grose's Antiquities,' 
cciiiiaiuiii;; a poem of yours, entitled ' Tam 
o' ISluiiitcr, a Tale.' The very high pleasure 
I have received from the perusal of this 
admirable piece, 1 feel, demands the warmest 
acknowledgments. Hill tells me he is to 
send off a packet for you tliis day ; 1 cannot 
resist, therefore, putting on paper what 1 
must have told you in person, had 1 met 
with you after the recent perusal of your 
tale, which is, that I feel I owe you a debt, 
wiiich, if undischarged, woidd reproach me 
with ingratitude. 1 have seldom in my life 
tasted of higher enjoyment from any work 
of genius, than I have received from this 
composition ; and I am much mistaken, if 
this poem alone, had you never written 
another syllable, woidd not have been suHi- 
cient to have transmitted your name down 
to posterity with high reputation. In tire 
introductory part, where you paint the 
character of your hero, and exhibit him at 
the alehouse ingle, with his tippling cronies, 
you have delineated nature with a humour 
and na'wetS that would do honour to 
Matthew Prior ; but when you describe the 
iufernal orgies of the witches' Sabbath, and 
the hellish scenery in which they are ex- 
hibited, you display a power of imagination 
that Shakespeare himself could not have 
exceeded. 1 know not that 1 have ever met 
witb a picture of more horrible fancy than 
the following : — 

'Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And, by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
ICach in his cauld hand held a liglit.' 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, 
luy blood ran cold within me : — 

' A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The fjrey hairs yet stack to tht heft.' 

"And here, after the two following lines, 
•■Wi' niair o' horrible and awfu',* &c., the 
descriptive part might, perhaps, have been 
better closed, than the four lines which 
iucceed, which, though good in themselves. 



yet, as they derive all their merit from th» 
satire they contain, are here rather misplaced 
among the circumstuices of pure horror. 
[The four lines were as follow : — 
' Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
Wi' lies seemed like a beggar's clout. 
And priests' liearts rotten, black as muck. 
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.' 

The poet expunged them, in obedience to 
the recommendation of i\Ir. Tytler.] 

"The initiation of the young witch it 
most happily described — the ell'ect of her 
charms exhibited in the dance of Satan him- 
self — the apostrophe, 'Ah, little thought thy 
reverend grannie!' — the transport of Tam, 
who forgets his situation, and enters com- 
pletely into the spirit of the scene- -are all 
features of high merit in this excellent 
composition. The only fault it possesses, 
is, that the winding up, or conclusion of the 
story, is not commensurate to the interest 
which is excited by the descriptive and 
characteristic painting of the preceding 
parts. The preparation is fine, but the 
result is not adequate. But for this, per- 
haps, you have a good apology — you stick to 
the popular tale. 

" And now that I have got out my mind, 
and feel a little relieved of the weight of 
that debt I owed you, let me end this 
desultory scroll by an advice : — You have 
proved your talent for a species of composi- 
tion in which but a very few of our own 
poets have succeeded. Go on — write more 
tales in the same style — you will eclipse 
Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal wit, 
equal power of numbers, and equal ndiveti 
of expression, you have a bolder and more 
vigorous imagination." 

Page 370, Note 117. — This respectablo 
and benevolent person, since Principal of 
the University of Edinburgh, had written to 
Burns, requesting his aid in revising Bruce'a 
poems, and a contribution to swell the 
volume. It does not appear that the 
edition which subsequently appeared, con- 
tained any poem by Burns. 

Page 372, Note 118.— This is the letter 
which Mr. Dugald Stewart, in his commu- 
nication to Dr. Currie respecting Burns 
(printed iu the Memoir written by that 
gentleman), says he read with surprise, as 
evincing that the unlettered Ayrshire bard 
had formed "a distinct conception of the 
general principles of the doctrine of asso- 
cii»ion." (See the foregoing rSmme ot 
Dr. Currie's Memoir of Burns. The doc- 
trine here alluded l:o, is one peculiar, 
we believe, to the Scotch school cf metaphy 

46 



628 



NOTES TO THE 



ticiats, and mainly consists in au assertion 
that our idaaa of beauty in objects, of all 
kinds, arise from our associating with them 
some other ideas of an agreeable kind. For 
instance, our notion of beauty in the cheek 
of a pretty maiden arises from our notions 
of her health, innocence, and so forth ; our 
notion of tlie beauty of a Highland prospect, 
•uch as the Trosachs, from our notions of 
the romantic kind of life formerly led in it ; 
ti if there were no female beauty iude- 
peudent of both health and innocence, or 
fine scenery where men had nut formerly 
worn tartans and claymores. The whole of 
the above letter of Burns is, in reality 
(though, perhaps, unmeant by him), a satire 
on this doctrnie, which, notwithstanding the 
eloquence of an Alison, a Stewart and a 
Jeffrey, must now be considered as amongst 
the dreams of philosophy. 

Page 374, Note 119. — "This gentleman, 
the factor, or steward of Burns's noble 
friend, Lord Glencairn, with a view to en- 
courage a second edition of the poems, laid 
the volume before his lordship, with such an 
account of the rustic bard's situation and 
prospects, as from his slender acquaintance 
with him he could furnish. The result, as 
communicated to Burns by Mr. Dalzel, is 
highly creditaljle to the character of Lord 
Glencairn. After reading the book, his 
iordsliip declared that its merits greatly 
exceeded his expectation, and he took it with 
him, as a literary curiosity, to Edinburgh. 
He repeated his wishes to be of service to 
Burns, and desired Mr. Dalzel to inform 
him, that in patronising the book, ushering 
it with effect into the world, or treating with 
the booksellers, he would most willingly give 
every aid in his power ; adding his request, 
that Burns would take the earliest oppor- 
tunity of letting him know in what way or 
manner he could best further his mterests." 
— Cromek. 

Page 374, Note 120.— The gist of this 
passage will be the better understood, when 
it is exnlaiiied that Mrs. Burns's accouche- 
ment had occurred only two days before the 
date of this letter, that is, on the 9th of 
April. It was the birth of William Nicol 
Burns, to which this letter refers. This 
child was christened after Mr. W. N., the 
teacher in the High School, Edinburgh, and 
the warm friend of Burns. 

Page 374, Note 121. — An allusion to 
the grandson of Mrs. Dunlop, and son of M. 
•nd Madame Henri. For additional par- 
ticulars the reader is referred to the foregoing 
Note, namber 111. 

Pagr 375, NorTB 122.— Dr. Robiiaon. 



who stood in the relationsliip of matem^ 
uncle to Mr. Cunningham. 

Page 376, Note 123.— Lady E. Cun- 
iiiiigham was the sister of Burns's best 
patron, the deceased Earl of Glencairn, as 
also of the existing nobleman (who had 
succeeded to his brother). Lady E. C. 
died in the month of August, 1804, un- 
married. 

Page 376, Note 124. — The accompanying 
poem enclosed in this letter, and to wliicS 
Burns here alludes, was the "Lament for 
James, Earl of Glencairn." 

Page 376, Note 125. — Colonel Fullarton 
is mentioned with praise and respect by 
Burns, in his poem of The Vision. This 
letter was first published in the year 1828, 
in the Paisley Magazine. 

Page 376, Note 126. — An allusion to 
eight-page song books, produced in the 
coarsest manner.and containingequally coarse 
matter, usually heralded with the title of 
Six Excellent Sonys for One Ilalfpenmj, 
the price at which they were sold; and, 
secondly, to the Penny Almanacks published 
at Aberdeen. 

Page 377, Note 127.— Colonel PuUarton 
was a native of Ayrshire. 

Page 377, Note 128. — Mr. Cunningham, 
in his edition of Burns, gives a very interest- 
ing note respecting the "charming lovely 
Davies ;" from which we learn, that she was 
the youngest daughter of l)r. Davies, of 
Tenby, in Pembrokeshire, and a relative of 
the Riddels of Friars' Carse. ' She died 
young, under the distress of laind consequent 
on the neglect of a lover. 

Page 379, Note 129. — Grose, in the 
introduction to his " Antiquities of ScotUiiid," 
acknowledges his obligations to Bums in 
the following paragraph, some of the terms 
of wliich will scarcely fail to amuse the 
modern reader : — 

" To my ingenious friend, Mr. Robert 
Burns, I have been seriously obligated : he 
was not only at the pains of making out 
what was most worthy of notice in Ayrshire, 
the country honoured by his birth, but he 
also wrote, expressly for this work, tiie 
pretty tale annexed to Alloway Church : — " 

This " pretty tale " being " Tarn & 
Shanter." 

Page 379, Note 130.— Mrs. Riddel, of 
Woodlee Park, near Dumfries. Her maiden 
name was Maria Woodlee, or Woodleigh, 
of V^'oodlee. Another Mrs. Riddel (she of 
Friars' Carse) was also a friend of Burns's. 

Page 379, Note 131.— The Philosophy 
of Natural History. 

Page 380, Note 132.— iln allusion to an 



CORRESPOTTOENCE OF BURNS. 



629 



admonitory letter received from W. Nicol, 
by Burns. 

Page 380, Note 133.— Mi. Nicol had 
purcliased a small piece of ground, called 
LasTjran, on the Nith. There took place the 
bacchanalian scene which called forth "Willie 
Brewed a Peck o' Maut." 

Page 331, Note 134. — This letter was 
coiuiuunicated by Mr. Gilchrist, of Stamford, 
to Sir E^erton Bryd^es, by whom it was 
published ia the Ceitsura Lileraria, ia the 
year 1796. 

Page 384, Note 135.— The lengthy cor- 
respondence which ensued between Mr. G. 
Thomson and Robert Burns, originated in 
the circumstances referred to in the first and 
second letters. Mr. George Thomson, of 
Eilinburgh, having designed a more than 
asually elegant collection of the national 
music of Scotland, applied to the poet for 
liis aid in imjiroving the songs, many of 
which were unworthy of publication. Burns, 
with that euthi>siasm which he entertained 
on the subject (>f Scottish music, entered 
heartily into Mr. Thomson's views, and 
contributed about sixty songs to the work. 
The letters which passed between the poet 
and Mr. Thomson are here given, as pre- 
pared for publication by the latter, and 
presented to the public iu the volumes of 
Dr. Currie, wno prefaced them with the 
following note : — " The undertaking of Mr. 
Thomson is one on which the public may be 
congratulated in various points of view, not 
merely as having collected the finest of the 
Scottish songs and airs of past times, but as 
having given occasion to a number of original 
songs of our bard, which equal or surpass 
the former efforts of the pastoral muses of 
Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may 
be safely compared with the lyric poetry of 
any age or country. The letters of Mr. 
Burns to Mr. Thomson include the songs he 
pr<isetited to him, some of wliich appear in 
different stages of their progress ; and these 
letters will be found to exhibit occasionally 
hi* notions of song-writing, and his opinions 
oil various subjects of taste and criticism. 
These opinions, it will be observed, were 
tailed forth by the observations of his 
correspondent, Mr. Thomson ; and without 
the letters of this gentlemen, those of Burns 
would have been often unintelligible. He 
has, therefore, yielded to the earnest request 
of the trustees of the family of tlie poet, to 
■uffer them to appear in their natural order ; 
«nd, independently of the illustration they 
give to the letters of our bard, it is not to be 
doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure 
them a reception from the public, far beyond 



what Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit 
him to suppose." '''''' 

Mr. George Thomson was born at Dme- 
kilns, in Fife, about the year 1759, and 
educated at Banff, his father being ( 
schoolmaster successively at these two 
places. Through the recommendation of 
Mr. Home, the author of " Douglas," he was 
admitted, in 1780, to the office of the Board 
of Trustees for the Encouragement of Manu- 
factures iu Scotland, as their junior clerk : 
and he is now (1833), after a service of 
fifty-eight years, principal clerk to the Board. 
His natural taste foivnusic was cultivated, 
in his early years, af^ie meetings of the St. 
Cecilia Society in Edinburgh— an amateur 
body, whose performances used to attract no 
inconsiderable hare of notice in those days. 
Mr. Thomson's Collection of Scottish Airs, 
first designed about 1792, was uot completed 
for many years : it has been, in fact, the 
employraeut of the leisure hours of the 
better part of his life. 

Mr. Thomson's work is entitled, " A 
Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs 
for the Voice : to which are added. Intro- 
ductory and Concluding Symphonies and 
Accompaniments ' for the Piano Force and 
Violin, by Pleyel and Kozeluch ; with Select 
and characteristic Verses, by the most 
admired Scottish Poets," &c. London: 
Printed and sold by Preston, No. 97, Strand. 
It has been completed in five volumes — one 
edition being in folio, and another in 8vo. 

Page 333, Note 136. — We have been 
informed that Burns marked his loathing of 
remuneration, by the use of even a stronger 
terra than this, which was substituted by 
the original editor. 

Page 390, Note 137.— The Commis- 
sioners of the Scottish Board of Excise 
were, at this time, George Brown, Thomas 
Wharton, James Stodart, Robert Graham 
(of Fintry), and John Grieve, Esqrs. 

Page 391, Note 133.— "T'ne following 
extract from a letter addressed by Jlr 
Bloomfield to the Earl of Buchan, contains 
so interesting an exhibition of the modesty 
inherent in real worth, and so philosophical, 
and at the same time, so poetical an esti- 
mate of the different characters and destinies 
of Burns and its author, that I should 
esteem myself culpable were I to withhold 
it from the public view. 

"' The illustrious soul that has left amongst 
us the name of Burns, has often been 
lowered down to a comparison with me ; 
but the comparison exists more in cir- 
cumstances than in essentials. That man 
stood up with the stamp of superior intellect 



«39 



NOTES TO THE 



on his brow; a visible greatness : and jjreat 
Hi(i patriotic subjects would only have called 
into action the powers of his mind, which 
lay inactive while be played calmly and ex- 
quisitely tlie pastoral pipe. 

"'The letters to which I have alluded in 
my Preface to the " Rural Tales," were 
frieudly warnings, pointed with immediate 
reference to the fate of that extraordinary 
man. " Remember Burns " has been the 
watchword of my friends. I do remember 
Burns ; but / am not Burns ! neither have 
I his fire to fan or to quench, nor passions 
to control ! Where, then, is my merit, if I 
mair.e a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, 
and with no mutiny on board? To a lady 
(I hare it from herself) who remonstrated 
with him on his danger from drink, and the 
pursuits of some of his associates, he 
replied : — " Madam, they would not thank 
me for my company, if I did not drink with 
them. I must give them a slice of my con- 
stitution." Howmuch is it not to be regretted 
that he did not give them thinner slices of 
his constitution, that it might have lasted 
longer.' " — Cuomek. 

Page 391, Note 139.— This letter is 
correctly dated, according to Chambers's 
arrangement, in tlie year 1793. The allusions 
to the untoward influence of his political 
opinions on his Excise promotion, which it 
contains, sufficiently identify it as having 
been written in this year. And in that 
respect I fully agree with Mr. Chambers, in 
opposition to Dr. Currie, v/ho has attributed 
it to the year 1792 in his own arrange- 
ment. 

Page 391, Note 140.— At the head of 
this letter was a transcribed copy of the two 
songs, "Puirtith Caiild" and "Gala Water," 
which will respectively be found in the 
foregoing part of this volume, amongst the 
poems. 

Page 392, Note 141.— Third son of 
Alexander, fifth Earl of Keliie, by Janet, 
daughter of the celebrated physician and 
wit. Dr. Pitciiirn. Mr. Erskine was a wit 
and a poet, and the author, in part of a 
curious and rare volume, entitled " Letters 
between the Hon. Andrew Erskine and 
James Bos well, Esq., London, 1703" — an 
amusing specimen of youthful frolic and 
vivacity. iMr. E. died in 1793. 

Page 393, Note 142.— The song of 
Dr. Walcot (Peter Pindar), on the same 
subject, is as follows : — 
" Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 

A midnight wanderer siglis ; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 

And lightnings cleave tho skie.^" 



" Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If slie whose love did once delight. 
My cot shall yield her room." 

" Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mount, 

Tliat once was prized by thee ; 
Think of the ring liy yonder burn. 

Thou gav'st to love and uie." 

" But should'st thou not poor Marion know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow. 

Far kinder than thy heart." 

" It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcot to 
mention that his song is purely origin;d. 
Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately 
wrote the other on the same subject, which 
is derived from an old Scottish ballad of 
uncertain origin." — Currie. 

Page 393, Note 143. — In closing this 
letter. Burns here transcribed and appended 
his own ballad of " Lord Gregory," as it 
stands in the text, now amongst the poems, 
and as it was published in Mr. Thomson's 
collection. 

Page 393, Note 144. — This letter bears 
date subsequently to the marriage of Robert 
Burns. 

Page 394, Note 145.— The following 
recent account of Clarinda, written in Feb. 
1S37, appears in a note, to the Memoir ot 
Lord Craig, in "Kay's Edinburgu Portraits," 
and will be read with interest by all adui' era 
of the poet : — " It may, perhaps, be worthy 
of notice that Lord Craig was cousin-geraian 
of Mrs. M'Lehose, the celeb) ated Clarinda 
of Burns, who is still living in Edinburgh, and 
was left an annuity by his lordship. She is now 
nearly eighty yars of age, but enjoys ex- 
cellent health. We found her sitting in the 
parlour, with some papers on the table. Her 
appearance, at first, betrayed a little of that 
laugour and apathy which attend age and 
solitude ; but the moment she comprelieiidej 
the object of our visit, her countenance, 
which even yet retains the lineaments of 
what Clarinda may be supposed to have 
been, became animated and intelligent. 
' That,"" said she, rising up and pointing to 
an engraving over the mantel-piece, ' is a 
likeness of my relative (Lord Craig), about 
whom Tou have been inquiring. He was 
the best friend I ever had ! After a little 
conversation about his Lordship, she directed 
our attention to a picture of Burns, by 
Horsburgh, after Taylor, on the opposite wall 
of the apartment. ' You well know who 
that is — it was presented to mc by Constable 
and Co., fui having simply declared what I 








CX)KIlESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



631 



knevr to be true, that the likeness was good.' 
We spoke of the correspondence betwixt the 
poet and Clarinda, at which she smiled, and 
pleasantly remarked on the great change 
which the lapse of so many years had pro- 
duced on her personal appearance. Indeed, 
any observation respecting Burns seemed to 
Bti'ord her pleasure ; and she laughed at a 
httle anecdote we told of him, which she had 
never before heard. 

" Having prolonged our intrusion to the 
limits of courtesy, and conversed on various 
topics, we took leave of the venerable lady, 
highly gratified by the interview." 

Pack 394, Note 146. — A seal with these 
fanciful bearings was actually cut for the 
poet, and used by him for the remainder of 
his life. Its impression is represented under 
ft profile of the poet, in Mr. Cunningham's 
edition of Burns, vol. viii., p. 1G8. 

Page 394, Note 147. — The poet here 
alludes to David Allan, painter, usually 
called the Scottish Hogarth. He was born 
at Alloa, in 1744, and educated through the 
kindness of some generous ladies. His 
serious paintings are not much admired; but 
he had a happy knack at hitting off Scottish 
rustic figures. At his death in 1796,, he left 
d series of drawings illustrative of Burns's 
works. 

Page 395, Note 148. — An old song, 
coniniencing with the two follow ing stanzas : 
'' Here awa, there awa, here awa Willie, 

Here awa, there awa, here awa hame ; 
Lang have 1 sought thee, dear have 1 bought 

thee. 
Now 1 hae gotten my Willie again. 

Throuirh the lang muir I have followed my 
Willie, 

Thrriugh the lang muir I have followed 
him harae, 
Wliatever betide us, nought shall divide us. 

Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain." 

Page 395, Note 149.— In Dr. Currie's 
edition of Burns's works, there precede two 
tidditiona! letters before this one ; but as 
these consist absolutely and entirely of 
transcripts of the two songs " Oh open the 
Door to Me, O 1 " and " Jessie," respectively, 
it will suffice simply to refer the reader to 
those songs, as they will be found amongst 
the poems; and to add, tliat they were 
written for, and first published, in Mr. 
Thomson's collection. 

Page 396, Note 150.— " Wanderhig 
Wilhe," as altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. 
Thomson. 



• Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 



Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st my Willie the saiaa 

Winter winds blew loud and caul' at our 
parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in loy ee. 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to ne. 

Rest ye wild storms in the cave o' ycto 

slumbers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft ye breezes I roll gently ye billows I 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms." 



Page 396, Note 151.— The next com- 
munication of Burns to Mr. Thomson, 
(namely, that which intervenes between let- 
ters No. 262 and 263,) marked No. XVIIL 
in Currie's publication of their correspond- 
ence, consisted merely of the songs, " The 
Soldier's Return," and " Meg o' the Mill," 
respectively, to be found in the accompanying 
edition of Burns's Poetical Works. 

Page 396, Note 152. — " E-urns here calls 
himself the ' Voice of Coila,' in imitation 
of Ossian, who denominates himself the 
' Voice of Cona.' ' Sae merry as we a' hae 
been ! ' and " Good night, and joy be wi' 
you a' ! ' are the names of two Scottish 
tunes." — CuRRiE. 

Page 3%, Note 153.— " Several of the 
alterations seem to be of little importance in 
themselves, and were adopted, it may be 
presumed, for the sake of suiting the words 
better to the music. The Homeric epithet 
for tlie sea, dark-keaviivj, suggested by Jlr. 
Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well, 
perhaps, as more sublime, than, wide-roaring, 
which he has retained ; but, as it is only 
applicable to a placid state of the sea, or, at 
most, to the swell left on its surface after 
the storm is over, it gives a picture of that 
element not so well adapted to the ideas of 
eternal separation, which the fair mourner is 
supposed to deprecate. From the original 
song of ' Here awa, Willie,' Burns has bor- 
rowed nothing but the second line and par( 
of the first. The superior excellence of this 
beautiful poem will, it is hoped, justify 
the different editions of it which we have 
given." — CuRRiE. 

Page 397, Note 154. — This was subse- 
quently effected to the mutual satisfaction 
both of Burns and of Mr. Thomson, and 
will be gathered from the poems in question, 
as printed m the foregoing part of thif 
volume. 

Page 397, Notb 155.— " Mr. Thomsoi^ it 

46* 



632 



NOTES TO THE 



appears, did not aj.prove of this song, even 
m its altered state. It does not appear in 
the correspondence ; but it is probably one 
to be found in his manuscripts, begiuuiug 

Yestreen I got a pint of wine 
A place where body saw na. 

Yestreen lay on this breast of mine. 
The gowden locks of Anna. 

It is highly characteristic of our bard, but 
the strain of sentiment does not correspond 
UTith the air to which he proposes it should 
be allied " — CuRRiE. 

Page 397, Note 150. — Alluding to the 
time when he held the farm of Ellislaiid, as 
tenant to Mr. Miller. 

Page 397, Note 157. — This gentleman 
most obligingly favoured the editor with a 
perfect copy of the original letter, and 
allowed him to lay it before the public. It 
is partly printed in Dr. Carrie's edition. — 
Chambers. 

" it will be necessary to state, that in eon- 
eequeiice of the poet's freedom of remark on 
public measures, maliciously mismnrcsented 
to tlie Board of Excise, he was lepresented 
as actually dis-missed from his oiuce. This 
report induced Mr. Erskine to propose a 
subscription in his favour, which was refused 
by the poet with that elevation of sentiment 
that pecuharly characterised his mind, and 
which is so happily displayed in this letter. 
See letter to R. Graham of Fiiitry, December 
1792, written by Burns, with even more 
than his accustomed pathos and eloquence, 
in further explanation." — Cromek. Mr. 
Erskine, of Mar, at all times of his life a 
uoted Whig, became Earl of !Mar, in 1824, 
in consequence of the reversal of his grand- 
father's attainder. He died August 20, 
1825, aged eighty-four. 

Page 399, Note 153.— "The original 
letter from Mr. Thomson contains many 
observations on the Scottish songs, and on 
the maimer of adapting the words to the 
r usic, which, at his desire, are suppressed. 
The subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to 
several of these observations." — Cuukie. 

Page 399, Note 159.— "The reader has 
already seen that Burns did not finally adopt 
all of Mr. Erskiue's alterations." — Currie. 

Pag 400, Note 160.—" The song to the 
tune of 'Bonnie Dundee' is that named 
'Jessie.' The ballad of the 'Mill, MillO!' 
is that beginning, ' When wild war's deadly 
blasts are blawn.'" — Currie. 

Page 400, Note 161. — Lufjs, a Scottish 
popular term for ears. 

Page '100, Note 162. — The song here 
Buuiti« ned, is that published in Number xviii 



of the Scot's Muster. I Museum and of whicii 
the first line runs thus : — 

Oh ken ye what Meg O' the Mill ha^ 
gotten. 

" Tliis song," says Mr. Thomson, in an 
original note, " is surely Mr. Burns's o ivn 
writing, though he does not generally praise 
his own songs so much." 

Page 400, Note 163.— The air here 
mentioned, is that for which he wrote the 
ballad of Bonnie Jean. 

Page 400, Note 164. — The original 
version of the song enclosed with this letter, 
differed somewhat materially from the 
present version in the text. 

Page 402, Note 165. — "The hues wtia 
the third and fourth : — 

Wi' moiiy a sweet babe fatherless. 
And mony a widow mourning. 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, 
and the first number of Mr. Thomson's 
musical work was in the press, this gentleman 
ventured, by Mr. Erskuie's advice, to sub- 
stitute for them in that publication, 

' And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been bleared with mourning.' 

Though better suited to the music, these 
lines are inferior to the original. This is 
the only alteration adopted by Mr. Thomson, 
which Burns did not approve, or at least 
assent to." — Currie. 

Page 403, Note 166. — A remittance of 
five pounds. 

Page 404, Note 167. — Katherine Ruther- 
ford, of Fernilee, in the county of Selknk, 
who married JNIr. Patrick Cockburn. — She 
died full of years in 1794. 

Page 406, Note 168. — "Gloamiii' — twi- 
light, probably from glooming. A beautifid 
poetic word, which ought to be adopted in 
England. A gloamin'-shot, a twilight inter- 
view." — Currie. 

Page 406, Note 169. — The poet inserts 
the song of " Dainty Davie," which it seems 
to have been the purpose of this letter to 
communicate. Burns had previously com- 
municated, for Johnson's Museum, a song 
nearly the same, the stanzas of which conclude 
with the awkward expression, "The gardener 
wi' his paidle," and to which he makes 
allusion in the brief prose text of this epistle. 

Page 406, Note 170.— This Miss Craik 
was the daughter of Mr. Craik of Arbiglaud, 
in the Stewartry of Kircudbright. 

Page 407, Note 171.— The dowager' 
Lady Glencairn, widow of William, tlurteentn 
Earl of Gleucairn, and, consequently, nothe? 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



6U 



of .Tames, the fourtetiith Earl, aad Bums's 
best patron. 

Pare 407, Note 172. — ^Laily Harriet 
Don was the daughter of the Dowao;er 
Countess of Glencairn, and sister to James, 
fourteenth Earl of C41encairn. The little 
atiffel to whom Burns aUudes, was the 
Dowager Countess's grandson, then a child, 
and afterwards better known for his urbanity 
and accomplishments, as Sir Alexander Don, 
of Newton Don. 

Page 410, Note 173. — "Mr. Thomson's 
list of songs for his publication. In his 
remarks the bard proceeds in order, and 
goes through the whole ; but on many of 
them he merely signifies his approbation. 
All his remarks of any importance are pre- 
sented to the reader." — Cukrie. 

Page 410, Note 174 — "This alteration 
Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at least 
intended to adopt), instead of the last stanza 
of the original song, which is objectionable 
in point of delicacy." — Currie. 

Page 411, Note 175. — It is very sur- 
prising that Burns should have thought it 
uecessary to substitute new verses for the 
old song to tliis air, which is one of the 
most exquisite effusions of genuine natural 
sentiment in the whole range of Scottish 
lyrical poetry. Its merit is now fully appre- 
ciated, while Burns'g substituted song is never 
sung. 

Page 411, Note 176.— The song to 
which Burns here alludes, is one of which he 
afterwards sent a perfected copy, and which 
was published in Mr, Thomson's collection. 
The first line runs thus : — 

\Miere are the joys I has met in the 

morning ? 

This song, however, was by no means so 
successful as the majority of his compositions, 
and the original words, to the same tune for 
which he had intended to adapt them, have 
outlived his newer version, and still continue 
to retain their former popularity and prefer- 
ence. Indeed, they are actually more spirited, 
and possess more essentially poetical spirit, 
iiian the lines supplied by Burns. 

Page 412, Note 177.— "Mr. Thomson 
has very properly adopted this song (if it 
may be so called) as the bard presented it to 
him. He has attached it to the air of 
' Lewie Gordon,' and, perhaps, among the 
existing airs he could not find a better ; but 
the poetry is suited to a much higher strain 
of music, and may employ the genius of some 
Scottish Handel, if any such shoidd in future 
arise. The reader will have observed, that 
Bums adopted the alterations proposed by 



his friend and correspondent in former ia- 
stances, with great readiness ; perhaps, 
indeed, on all indifterent occasions. In the 
present instance, however, he rejected them, 
though repeatedly urged, with determined 
resolution. With every respect for tho 
judgment of iNIr. Thomsc n and his friends, 
we may be satisfied that he did so. He, 
who in preparing for an engagement, at- 
tempts to withdraw his imagination from 
images of death, will probably have but 
imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand 
in the ranks of battle, where the liberties of 
a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the 
conquerors of Bannockburn were not com- 
posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, 
and familiar with all its sufferings and 
dangers. On the eve of that memorable 
day, their spirits were, without doubt, wound 
up to a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the 
occasion : a pitch of enthusiasm, at wliick 
danger becomes attractive, and the musf 
terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. 
Such a strain of sentiment this heroic ' wel- 
come ' may be supposed well calculated to 
elevate — to raise their hearts high above 
fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost 
pitch of mortal exertion. These observations 
might be illustrated and supported by a 
reference to the martial poetry of all na- 
tions, from the spirit-stirring strains of 
Tyrtseus, to the war-song of General Wolfe, 
jSIr. Thomson's observation, that ' Welcome 
to your gory bed,' is a discouraging address, 
seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, 
indeed, it may be anmitted, that the term 
gory is somewhat objectionable, not on ac- 
count of its presenting a frightful, but a dis- 
agreeable image to the mind. But a great 
poet, uttering his conceptions on an interest- 
ing occasion, seeks always to present a 
picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed 
to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar 
of the imagination. And it is the privilege 
of superior genius, by producing a new 
association, to elevate expressions that wers 
originally low, and thus to .triumph over the 
deticiencies of language. In how many 
instances might this be exemplified from tha 
works of our immortal Shakespeare : — 

'Who woiM fardels bear, 
To groan and sweat under a weary life — - 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin ?' 

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such 
reflections is probably sutiicient." — Currie. 
Page 413, Note 178. — Burns here 
alludes to the melancholy death of the 
Honourable A Erskine, respecting vthicb 



M4 



NOTES TO THE 



ThoiDnon had wi/tteu the poet a most feeling 
letter. Thomson, from a mistaken sense of 
dehcacy, withheld this letter, when it subse- 
quently fell into his hands. 

Page 413, Note 179.— This Mr. Gavin 
TurnbuU had, in 1783, published a volume 
of poems, entitled Poetical Essays. The 
work was published at Glasgow, and enjoyed 
even very little of its ephemeral admiration. 
It soon sunk into oblivion. The pieces which 
Burns himself quotes at full length in this 
letter, are really very inadequate to the bril- 
liant eulogy with which he accompanies 
them. And it worild seem as if his prejudice 
in favour of an old acquaintance had blinded 
his better judgment and taste ; for he was 
»ery rarely guilty of such misprisions. 

Page 414, Note 180. — In Dr. Currie's 
edition is inserted a letter from Burns to 
Thomson immediately following this, and 
before the next which I have adopted of the 
letters of Mr. Thomson. As the letter. No. 
49, in Dr. Currie's edition, however, con- 
ifisted merely of transcripts of the songs 
"Wilt thou be my Dearie, O!" and "Husband, 
husband, cease your strife," both of which 
are inserted amongst the poems, I did not 
think it necessary to re-insert them in the 
form of a letter. The two songs in question, 
however, are thus identified as having been 
written especially for Mr. Thomson's col- 
lection. 

Page 415, Note 181. — Burns here 
alludes to the well-worn Scottish bank notes. 

Page 415, Note 182. — A present, con- 
sisting of the edition of his own poems, as 
published in 1793, which were despatched 
by Burns with this letter. 

Page 415, Note 183. — It has been sup- 
posed that this letter was addressed to 
Captain Robertson, of Lude. 

Page 415, Note 184. — Brace's address 
to his troops before the Battle of Ban- 
nockburn : — 

Scot's wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 

Page 416, Note 185.— "The lady to 
whom the bard has so happily and justly 
applied the quotation in this letter, paid the 
debt of nature a few months ago. The 
graces of her person were only equalled by 
the singular endowments of her mind ; and 
her poetical talents rendered heran interesting 
fnend to Burns, iu a part of the world where 
he was, in a great measure, excluded from 
the sweet intercourse of literary society." — 
Gilbert Bi-rns, 1820. 

Page 416, Note 186. — ^Bnice's address 
to his troops before the Battle of Bau- 
ttockbuni : — 



Scot's wha hae in' Wallace bled. 

Page 416, Note 18 7. — The same dk 
stated in the foregoing Note, number 18ti. 

Page 418, Note 188.— This gentleman 
held the office of Distributor of Stamps at 
Dumfries. Burns, who at first lived in th» 
floor above his office, formed an intimacj 
with him, which lasted till the death of the 
poet. Mr. Syme was an agreeable table 
companion, and possessed considerable wit, 
the effusions of which were sometimes mis- 
taken for Buriis's. He died at his house of 
Ryedale, near Dumfries, November 24, 1831, 
in his seventy-seventh year. 

Page 413, Note 189. — Burns here 
alludes to the song, of which the first lin« 
nms thus : — 

Oh wat ye what's in yon town. 

And which was composed in honour of Mrs. 
Oswald, of Aucliincruive. 

Page 421, Note 190.— Mr. David Mac- 
culloch is no longer living. One of his 
sisters, subsequently to the date of this 
letter, married Mr. Thomas Scott, brother 
to Sir Walter Scott. 

Page 422, Note 191. — Dr. Cume objects 
to the expression " ruffian feeling." He sug- 
gests that the word "ruder" would have 
possessed more euphony, and been more in 
keeping with the tenderness of the piece. 
I do not exactly agree in his criticism, nor 
do I think that the expression in the text is 
too " rugged an epithet " for the sense which 
Burns evidently intended to convey. It is 
one of the essential beauties of the poetry of 
Bums, that he seems almost invariably to 
have hit, as if by intuition, upon the most 
apt, appropriate, and positive expression 
whereby to convey the particular sentiment 
which he sought to communicate. He rarely 
says too much, and as rarely too little : a 
merit which has not been attributable to 
many of our most polished poets, and of 
which Shakepeare is the only pure example 
in English literature. 

Page 423, Note 192.— "This Virgilian 
order of the poet should, I think, be dis- 
obeyed with respect to the song in question, 
the second stanza excepted." — Note Bt 
Mr. Thomson. 

" Doctors differ. Tlie objection to the second 
stanza does not strike the editor." — Currie. 

Page 425, Note 193. — Our bard had 
before received the same advice, and so far 
took it into consideration, as to have cast 
about for a subject. 

Page 426, Note IS t.— This, as well as 
other poems to which he alludes iu thii 




COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



5U 



letter, liad previously been published by Jlr. 
Johnson in the SeoU' Musical Mweitm, and 
Mr. Thomson, suspecting the authorsliip, 
had inquired of Burns if they were his com- 
positiou. 

Page 426, Notk 195.— The name of a 
mountain in the north. 

Page 426, Note 196. — "The reader will 
be curious to see this poem, so highly praised 
by Burns. He it is : — 

' Keen blaws the wind o'er Dounocht-Head, 

The snaw drives snelly through the dale, 
The gaberlunzie tirls my sneck. 

And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. 
"Cauld is the niglit, oh, let me in. 

And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
And dinna let his winding-sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snav. 

' Full ninety winters hae I seen. 

And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flev, 
k.nd mony a day I've danc'd, I ween. 

To lilts which from ray drone I blew." 
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, 

*"' Get up guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din." 
My Eppie's voice, oh wow it's sweet. 

Even though she bans and scaulds a wee; 
But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale. 

Oh, haith, it's doubly dear to me ! 
" Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a boimy flame ; 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate. 

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame." 

"Nae hame have I," the minstrel said. 
Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha' ; 

And, weeping at the eve of life, 

I wander through a wreath o' sna*." ' 

" This affecting poem is apparently incom- 
plete. The author need not be ashamed to 
own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of 
Macneill." — Currie. [It was written by a 
gentleman of Newcastle, named Pickering.] 

Page 426, Note 197. — Mr. Fvitson, who 
had published a collection of Scottish songs 
iu London. 

Page 427, Note 198. — ^"Variation: — 

Now to the streaming fountain. 

Or up the heathy mountain, [stray; 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay tiie linnet pours; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, [day. 

While the sun and thou arise to bless the 

When frae my Chloris parted, 
S^d, cheerless, broken-hearted. 



The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, 

o'erciist my sky. 

But when she charms my sight. 
In pride of beauty's light ; 
When throui;h my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy P 

— Currie. 

Page 428, Note 199— Burns here alludei 
to Mrs. Whelpdale, whose maiden name, Jean 
Lorimer, is more familiar to our readers. 

Page 428, Note 200.— Mr. Thomson 
must have completely mkunderstood the 
character of this old song It is a most 
romantic one, clothed in the most poeticaJ 
language. 

Page 428, Note 201.— "See the song, 
in its first and best dress. Our bard^ 
remarks upon it: — 'I could easily throw 
this into an English mould; but, to ray 
taste, in the simple and the tender of the 
pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish 
has an inimitable effect.' " — Currie. 

Page 431,Note 202. — "In a conversation 
with his friend Mr. Perry (the proprietor of 
Tlie Morning Chronicle), Mr. Miller re- 
presented to that gentleman the insufficiency 
of Burns's salary to answer the imperious 
demands of a numerous family. In their 
sympathy for his misfortunes, and in their 
regret that his talents were nearly lost to 
the world of letters, these gentlemen agreed 
on the plan of settling hira in London. To 
accomplish this most desirable object, Mr. 
Perry, very spiritedly, made the poet a hand- 
some oiler of an annual stipend for the 
exercise of his talents in his newspaper. 
Burns's reasons for refusing this otter arc 
stated in the present letter." — Cromek. 

Page 432, Note 203. — In Burns's next 
communication to Mr. Thomson, marked 
No. LXIX, in Currie's series of their cor- 
respondence, he merely transcribes the 
compound song, inserted in his Poetical 
Works, under the title of " Oh lassie, 
art thou sleeping yet?" and adds, "1 d» 
not know whether it will do." 

Page 433, Note 204.— Dr. Currie wsa 
horn in the neighbourhood of Ecclet'eclian, 
ana with tne characteristic prejudice in 
favour of his native village, he states, that 
Burns must have been exceedingly tipsy to 
have so maligned the place. 

Page 433, Note 203.— At the head of 
this letter. Burns had inserted a copy of tha 
song, entitled an "Address to the Wood- 
lark," to which he alludes in the first two 
lines. 

Page 434, Note 206. — Two verses of 
this song have been given to the public : — 




-^. 



iiiHiiiiiiiiii!]iiii'iiiiiliiiiinuii:ii'iniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiuiuiiiiiiiiiii:iiiiii!iiin;;iii:iiiii 







S36 



NOTES TO THE 



And now your banks and bonnie braes 

But waken sad remembrance smart ; 
The very shades I held most dear 

Now strike fresh anguish to my heart : 
Deserted bower ! where are they now — 

Ah ! where the garlands that I wove 
With foithftd care, each morn to deck 

The altars of ungrateful love? 

Tlie flowers of spring, how gay they bloomed 

When last with him I wandered here! 
The flowers of spring are passed away 

For wintry horrors dark and drear. 
Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks 

My songs have lulled him oft to rest, 
li now in icy fetters locked — 

Cold as my false love's frozen breast. 

Page 434, Note 207.— Mr. Heron is 
Boraetinies, indeed frequently, spoken of as 
Mr. Heron of Kerroiiglitree. His proper 
desio'natiou, however, was Heron of Heron. 

Page 434, Note 208.— These ballads, 
which related to ilr. Heron's contest for the 
representation of the Stewartry of Kirkcud- 
bright, will be found amongst the poems in 
the former portion of this work. 

Page 435, Note 209. — Burns here 
alludes to the lines which open as follow ; — 

Still anxioiia to secure your partial favour. 

And which had been composed especially for 
Miss Fontenelle. The lines will be found at 
length amongst the poems. 

Page 435, Note 210. — Tlie pieces to 
which this letter referred, formed the intro- 
duction to the letter itself. Burns having 
transcribed them at length. They were 
those which respectively begin " How cruel 
are tlie parents," and " Mark yonder pomp 
of costly fashion." 

Page 437, Note 211.— The song to 
which Burns here alludes, and a copy of 
which headed the letter, was that of which 
the initiatory line runs thus : — ' 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near. 

Page 437, Note 212. — The lines to which 
Burns here refers, and which he had tran- 
scribed at the head of his letter, are those 
which commence respectively as follows : — 

Last May, a braw woer. 
And, 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Page 438, Note 213.— This gentleman 
bis since resided at Glasgow iu retirement : 
1838. 

Page 439, Note 214.—" This letter owes 
Its origin to the following circumstance : — A 



neighbour of the poet's at Dumfries called 
on him, and complained that he had been 
greatly disappointed in the irregular delivery 
of the paper, of The Moriunrj Chronicle 
Burns asked, ' Why do not you write to tb^ 
editors of the paper ? ' ' Good God, Sir, can 
/ presume to write to the learned editors oi 
a newspaper ? ' ' Well, if you are afraid of 
writing to the editors of a newspaper, / am 
not ; and, if you think proper, I'll draw up a 
sketch of a letter which you may copy.' 

Burns tore a leaf from his Excise l•^ok, 
and instantly produced the sketch which I 
have transcribed, and which is here printed. 
The poor man thanked him, and took the 
letter home. However, that caution which 
the watchfulness of his enemies had taught 
him to exercise, prompted hiin to the pru- 
dence of begging a friend to wait on the 
person for whom it was written, and request 
the favour to have it returned. This request 
was complied with, and the paper never ap- 
peared in print." — Ckomek. 

Page 440, Note 215. — The novel en- 
titled " Edward." 

Page 441, Note 216. — The request 
conveyed in this letter was immediately com- 
piled with. 

Page 442, Note 217.— The child died 
suddenly at Mauchline, and Burns was 
unable to see her at the last. 

Page 442, Note 218. — No subsequent 
explanation was received by Mr. Thomson, 
of the name which should be substituted for 
Chloris in these poems, and in the midst of 
this work which created such general inte- 
rest, it was arrested by the last and fatal 
illness of the poet. 

Page 443, Note 219. — His proposed r^ 
visal was prevented by the untimely death 
of the poet. 

Page 444, Note 220.— " In this humbla 
and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for 
a copy of a work, of which he was princi- 
pally the founder, and to which he had con- 
tributed, grntuitousl;/, not less than 134 
original, altered, and collected songs ! The 
editor has seen 180 transcribed by his own 
hand for the Museum." — Cromek. 

Page 445, Note 221. — It is truly pr.in- 
fill to mention, that the request was not 
granted. — Chambers. 

Page 445, Note 222. — Just before Iiii 
death, however. Burns had the satisfaction 
of receiving a most satisfactory explanation 
of Mrs. Dunlop's silence, and the warmest 
assurances, that if any thing uiitoward should 
occur to him, her friendship should unre- 
mittingly be extended to his widow and 
children. The subsequent history of hit 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



587 



family sufficiently proves how nobly, gene- 
rously, and devotedly Mrs. Dunlop kept her 
promise to the poor dying poet. 

Page 446, Note 223.— Mr. James Bur- 
ness immediately complied with the request. 

Page 440, Note 224. — The song of 
which Burns here alludes, is that of which 
the initiatory line runs thus : — 

Faij-est maid on Devop's banks. 

Dr. Currie adds the following note : — 
" These verses, and the letter enclosing 
them, are written in a character that marks 
the very feeble state of Burns's bodily 
strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he 
could not have been in any danger of a jail 
at Dumfries, where certainly he had many 
firm friends, nor under any such necessity of 
imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about 
this time his reason began to be at times 
unsettled, and the horrors of a jail per- 
petually haunted his imagination. He died 
on the 21st of this month." 

Page 446, Note 225. — The pecuniary 
circumstances attending Mr. Thomson's con- 
nection with Burns, appear liable, at the 
present day, to much misappreliension. This 
gentleman, whose work has ultimately met 
with a good sale, seems to be regarded by 
some, as an enriched man who measured a 
stinted reward to a poor one, looking for a 
greater recompense : and several writers 
have, on this ground, spoken of hira in an 
ungracious manner. 

When we go back to the time of the cor- 
respondence between the two men, and con- 
sider their respective circumstances, and the 
relation in which they came to stand towards 
each other, the conduct of Mr. Thomson 
assumes quite a different aspect. He and 
Burns were enthusiasts, the one in music, 
the other in poetry ; they were both of them 
servants of the government, on limited 
salaries, with rising families. Mr. Thomson, 
with httle prospect of profit, engaged in the 
preparation of a work which was designed to 
set forth the music of his native land to 
?very possible advantage, and of which the 
paper and print alone were likely to exhaust 
his very moderate resources. For literary 
aid in this labour of love, he applied to the 
great Scottish poet, who had already gra- 
tuitously assisted Johnson in his Scottish 
Musical Museum. Mr. Thomson offered 
reasonable remuneration, but the poet 
scorned the idea of recompense, and de- 
clared he would write only because it gave 
him pleasure. Nevertheless, Mr. Thomson, 
in the course of their correspondence, ven- 
tured to send a pecuniary presei t, which. 



although not forning an adequate recc/ni 
pense for Burns's services, was still ona 
which such men might be apt, at that period, 
to offer and accept from each otiier This 
Bums, with hesitation, accepted, but sternly 
forbade any further remittance, protesting, 
that it would put a period to tht^r correspond" 
ence. Yet Mr. Thomson, from time to 
time, expressed his sense of obligation, by 
presents of a different nature, and these thfl 
poet accepted. Burns ultimately, on an emer- 
gency, requested a renewal of the former re- 
mittance, using such terms on the occasion, as 
showed that his former scorn of all pecuniary 
remuneration was still a predominant feeling 
in his mind. Jlr. Thomson, therefore, sentthe 
very sum asked, believing, if he presumed to 
send more, that he would run a greater risk 
of offending than of gratifying the poet, in the 
then irritable state of his feelings. In all 
this, we humbly conceive that no unpreju- 
diced person at the time would have seen 
grounds for any charge against i\Ir. Thomson. 

It may further be remarked, that, at the 
time of the poet's death, though many songs 
had been written, only six had been pub- 
lished, namely, those in the first half volume, 
so that during the life of the poet, the 
publisher had realised nothing by the songs, 
and must have still been greatly doubtful if 
he should ever recover what he had already 
expended on the work. Btfore many more 
of the songs had appeared in connection 
with his music, the friends of the poet's 
family had resolved to collect his works for 
publication ; upon which, Mr. Thomson 
thought it a duty incumbent on him to give 
up the manuscripts of the whole of the songs, 
together with the poet's and his own letters, 
to Dr. Currie, that they might form part of 
the edition of Burns's works. The full 
benefit of them, as literary compositions, was 
thus realised for the poet's family, Mr. 
Thomson only retaining an exclusive right, to 
publish them afterwards in connection with 
the music. And hence, after all, the debtor 
side of his account with Burns is not so 
great as it is apt to appear. No further 
debate could arise on this subject, if it were 
to be regarded in the light in which the 
parties chiefly interested have regarded it. 
We see that Burns himself manifests no 
trace of a suspicion that hi.:, correspondent 
was a selfish or niggardly man ; and it is 
equally certain, that his surviving family 
always looked on that gentleman as one of 
the poet's and their own kindest friends. 
Here, we trust, the matter will at length 
rest. 

It is a curious fact, net hitherto known t« 




S38 



NOTES 10 THE COHTIESPONDENCE OP BUKNS. 



the public, nor even to Mr. Thomson himself, 
that the five pounds sent by liira to Burns, 
as well as the larsjer sum which the poet 
borrowed about the same time from his 
cousin, Mr. Buruess of Montrose, was not 
made use of on the occasion, but that the 
bank orders for both sums remained in 
Burns's house at the time of his death. This 
is proved by the following document, for 
which we are indebted to Mr. Alexander 
Macdoiiald, of the General Register House, 
Edinburgh : — 

" The Testament Dative, and Inventory of 
the debts and sums of money which were 
justly owing to umquhile Robert Burns, 
otlicer of excise in Dumfries, at the 
time of his decease, viz. the 21st day of 
July last, faithfully made out and given 
up by Jean Armour, widow of the said 
defunct, and executrix qua relict decerned 
to ki'n by decreet dative of the Coramis- 
eary of Dumfries, dated 16th September 
last." 

Tnere was justly owing to the said defunct, 
at the time of his decease aforesaid, the 
principal sum of five pounds sterling, con- 
tained in a promissory note, dated the 14th 
July last, granted by Sir William Forbes 
and Co., bankers in Edinburgh, to George 
Thomson, payable on demand ; which note 
it by the said George Thomson indorsed, 
payable to the defunct : Item, the principal 
lum of ten pounds sterling, contained in a 
iraft dated the 15th July last, drawn by 
Robert Chii«tie upon the manager for the 



British Linen Co. in Edinburgh, in favouv 
of James Burness or order; which draft is 
by the said James Burness indorsed payable 
to the defunct. 

" Sum of the debts owing to the defunct, 
£15 sterling. 

" Thomas Goldie of Craigmuie, commissaz^ 
of the commissariat of Dumfries, specially 
constituted for confirmation of t«staiiiL)it3 
within the bounds of the said commj^o,., ...t 
of Dumfries, understanding that, aiter 
due summoning and lawful warning, made 
by public form of edict of the execu- 
tors, testamentary spouse, bairns, if any 
were, and intromitters with the goods and 
gear of the said umquhile Robert Burns, 
and all others having or pretending to have 
interest in the matter underwritten, &c. &c„ 
I decerned therein, &c,. and in his Majesty V 
name, constitute, ordain, and confirm the 
said Jean Armour, executrix qua relict to 
the defunct, and in and to the debt and 
suras of money above written. 

" At Dumfries, 6th Oct. 1796." 
— Chambers. 

Page 447, Note 226.— Alluding to at> 
offer made by Mr. Gracie, a banker in Dum» 
fries, to have Burns conveyed home in a 
post-chaise. 

Page 447, Note 227.— Burns's father- 
in-law (the father of Mrs. Burns). 

Page 447, Note 228.— This letter was 
written only three days before the death of 
Robert Burns, and is the last of the whtteii 
memorials which he haa bequeathed to the 
world. 



fInHHnq. 



• Tt» ch And tih hare always the ^ttnral sound. The sound of the Ergllsh diphthong oo, li commonly «p« lied om 
The French ii, a sciund which often occurs in tlie Scotch lansua^e, is marked oe or ui. The a, in genuine 
Scottish words, except when forming a diplitlions, or followed by an e mute after i: single consonant, sound! 
generally like the broad English a in wnlt. The Scotch diplithong ne, always, and M, very often, sound like th» 
French t masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei."— K. B. 



A'. AJ. 

Aback. Aw^y, aloof. 

Al« iu'li. At a shy distance, 

Ali'i'iii. Above, up. 

Aim ad. Abroad, in sight. 

Abiei'd. In breadth. 

Ae. One. 

Aff. Off. 

Afore. Before. 

Aft. Oft. 

Aften. Often. 

Agley. Off the right line, 

wrong. 
Aihlius:. Perhapa. 
Ain. Own. 
Airn. Iron. 
Aith. An Oath. 
Aits. Oats. 
Aiver. An old horse. 
Aizte. A JiOt cinder. 
Alake. Alas ! 
Alaiie. Alone. 
A k wart. Awkward, 
Aniaist. Almost. 
Amaug. Among. 
An". And, if. 
Vnce. Once. 
Anc. One, and. 
Areiit. Over against. 
Anituer. Another. 
Ase. Ashes. 

Asteer. Abroad, stirring. 
Aught. Possession ; a.s, in 

a' my aitght, in all my 

possession. 
AulJ. Old. 
AulUfarran, or Auld-far- 

rant. Sagacioui.cunniug, 

prudent. 
Ava. At all. 
Awa'. Away. 
Awfu". Awful. 
Awn. The beard of bwltjr, 

oats, cStc 
Awnie. Bearded. 
Ayont. Beyond. 



Ba'. BaU. 

Backets. Ash boards. 

Backlina. Comin', coming 

back, returning. 
Bade. Did bid. 
Baide. Endured, did stay. 
Baggie. The belly, 
bainie. Having large bones, 

stout. 
Bairn. A child. 
Baimtime. Tin le of having 

a familv. 
Baith. Both. 
Ban. Tosweai 
Bane. Bone. 
Bang. To beat, to stride. 
Bannock. A kind of thick 

cake of br^ad, a small 

jannack \t loaf made of 

oatiuciU. 
Bunlie. DlialnutlT* Of 

h«i<l. 



Barefit. Barefooted 

Barmie. Of, or like barm. 

Batch. A crew, a gang. 

Batts. Botts. 

Baudrons. A cat. 

liauld. Bold. 

Baws'nt Having a white 
stripe down the face. 

Be. To le t be, to give over, 
to cea.se. 

Bear. Barley. 

Beastie. Diminutive of 
beast. 

Beet. To add fuel to Are 

Belyve. By and bye 

Ben. In, inner room. 

Bethankit. Grace after 
meat. 

Beuk. A book. 

Bicker. A kind of wooden 
dish, a short race. 

Bie, or Bield Shelter. 

Bien. 'Wealthy, plentiful. 

Big. To build 

Biggin. Building, a 

house. 

Biggit. Built. 

Bill. A bull. 

Billie. A brother, a young 
tellow. 

Bing. A heap of grain, po- 
tatoes, &c. 

Birk. Birch. 

Birkie. A clever fellow. 

Bining. The noise of par- 
tridges, &c., wlien they 
spring. 

Bit. Crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz A bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie. Ashrivell'ddwarf, 
a^enn o' contempt. 

Bla.stit. Blasted. 

Blate. Bashful, sheepish. 

Blather. Bladder. 

Blaud. A flat piece of any- 
thing, to slap. 

Blaw. To blow, to boast. 

Bleezin'. Blazing. 

Blellum. Idle, talking fel- 
low. 

Blether. To talk Idly, 
nonsense. 

Bleth'rin. Talking Idly. 

Blink. A little while, a 
smiling look, to look 
kindly, to shine by fits. 

Blinker. A term of con- 
tempt. 

Blinkin'. Smirking. 

Blue-goBTi. One of those 
beggars who get annually 
on the king's birth-day, 
a blue cloak or gown, 
with a badge. 

Bluld. Blood. 

Blyj)e. A shred, • large 
piece. 

Bock. To vomit, to gush 
intermittingly. 

Bocked. Gusheo, vomited. 

Bodle. A saa'l old coin. 



Bonnie, or Bonny. Hand- 
some, beautilul. 

Boord A board. 

Bore. A hole in the wall. 

Boortrec. The shrub elder, 
planted much of old in 
hedges of birn-yards, &c 

Bood,orBuid. Behoved 

Botch. An ansry tumour. 

Bousing. Drinking. 

Bow-kail. Cabbage. 

Bowt. Bended, crooked. 

Brae. A declivity, a |)rcci- 
picc, the slope of a hill. 

Braid. Jiroad. 

Braik. A kind of harrow 

Brainge. To run rashly 
forward 

Bra ng'i. Reeled forward. 

Brak. Broke, made insol 
vent. 

Branks. A kind of wooden 
curb for hoi-ses. 

Brash. A sudden illness. 

Brats. Coarse clothes, rags, 
&c. 

Brattle. A short race, 
hurry. 

Bra w Fine . handsome. 

Brawlyt, or Brawlie. Very 
well, finely, heartily. 

Braxie. A diseased sheep 

Breastie. Diminutive of 
breast. 

Breastit. Did spring up or 
forward. 

Breckens. Fern. 

Brcef. An invulnerable or 
irresistible spell. 

Breeks. Breeches. 

lire win'. Brewing, 

Brie. Juice, liquid. 

Brig. A bridge . 

Brunstane. lirimstone. 

Bri-ket. The breast, the 
bosom. 

Brither A brother. 

Brock. A badger. 

Brogue. A hum, a trick. 

Broo Broth, liquid, water. 

Broose. A race at country 
weddings, who shall first 
reach the bridegroom's 
house on ret»iming from 
church. 

Brunh. A burgh. 

Bruilzie. A broil, • com- 
bustion. 

Brunt. Did burn, burnt. 

Brust. To burst, hurst. 

Buchan-bullers. The boil- 
ing of tlie sea among the 
rocks on the coast oJ 
Buchan. 

Buirdly. Stout made, 
broad built 

Bum-clock. A humming 
beetle that flies in the 
summer evenings. 

Bumniin'. Humming as 
bees. 



Bnmmle. To blunder. 

BuMimler. A blunderer. 

Bunker. A window-seit. 

Burdics. Diminutive of 
birds. 

Bure. Did bear. 

liurn. Water, a rivulet. 

Bumewin : i. e. hum tna 
wind. A blacksmith. 

Burnie. Diminutive of bum 

Buskit. Dressed 

Busle A bustle, to bustle. 

But. 'Without 

But an' ben. Outer ant 
inner apartment. 

By liimNelf. Lunatic dis- 
tracted. 

Byke. A bee-hive. 

Byre. A cow-stable, a 
shippen. 



Ca*. To call, to name, to 

drive. 
Ca'torca'd. Called, driven, 

calved. 
Cadger. A carrier. 
Cadie or caudie. A person, 

a young fellow,an erraud 

boy. 
Caff. Chaff. 
Caird. A tinker. 
Cairn. A loose heap of 

stones. 
Call-ward. A small enclo- 
sure for calves. 
Callan. A boy. 
Caller. Fresh , sound 
Cannie. Gentle, mild, de«- 

terous. 
Cannilie. Dexterously, 

gently. 
Cantie or canty. Cheerful 

merry. 
Cantrip. A charm, a spelL 
Cap-stane. Copc-s«one,key> 

stone 
Oareerin. Cheerfully. 
Carl. An old man. 
Carlin. A stout old woman 
Cartes. Cards 
Ca-stock The stalk of • 

cabbage. 
Caudron A cauldron. 
Cauk and keel. Chalk and 

red clay. 
Cauld. Cold. 
Caup. A wooden drinking 

vessel. 
Chanter. A part of a bag- 
pipe. 

Iiap. A person, a felloir, 

a blow. 
Chaup. A stroke, a blow. 
Cheekit. Cheeked. 
Cheep. A chirp, to chirp. 
Chiel or Cheel. A young 

fellow. 
Chimla or Chimlle. A Oto> 

rate.iire-place 
CbinUa-lug. The fire-sidA 



47 



540 



GLOSSARY. 



Chittpiin?. BhlTcria^, 

trt'mbJinsr. 

Chokjn'. Choilng. 

Chow. To chew ; cheek for 
cKow, side by side. 

ChuHie. Fat-laced 

Clachan. A small Tillage 
about a church, a hamlet 

Claise, or claes. Clothe*. 

Claith. Cloth. 

Claithing. Clothing 

Claivers. Nonsense, not 
speakinj? sense. 

Clap. Clapper of a mill, 

Claikit. Wrote. 

Clash. An idle tale, the 
storv of the day. 

Clatter. To tell' little idle 
stories, an idle story. 

Clauiiht. Snatched at, laid 
hold oS. 

Claut. To clean , to scrape. 

Clautcd. Scraped. 

Claw. To scratch. 

Cleed. To clothe. 

Clofkit, Having caught. 

CUnkin*. Jerking, clinking. 

Clinkumbcll. Who rings 
the church bell. 

Clips. Shears. 

Cllshmaclaver. Idle con- 
versation. 

Cloak. To hatch, a beetle. 

Cloalcin'. Hatching. 

Cloot. The hoof of a cow 
sheep, (So. 

Clootie. An old name for 
the devil. 

Clour. A bump or » welling 
after a blow. 

Ooaxin'. "Wheedling. 

r^oble. A fishing boat. 

Coft. Bought. 

Cog. A wooden dish. 

rog;;ie. Diminutive of cog. 

Coin. From Kyle, a dis- 
trict of Ayrshire, so called 
8:iith triuiiti )n, from Coil, 
or Coilus, a Pictish mo- 
narcli. 

Collie. A general and 
son\ctimes a particular 
name for country curs. 

Comumun. Command. 

Cood The cud. 

Coot. A blockhcad.aninBy. 

Cookit. Appeared and dis- 
appeared by fits. 

Coost. Did cast. 

Coot, or Kuit. The ancle. 

Cootie. A wooden kitchen 
dish; also those fowls 
whose legs are clad with 
feathers are said to be 
cootie. 

Corbies. A species of the 
crow. 

Core. Corps, party, clan. 

Curii't. Fed with oats. 

Cotter. The inhabitant of 
a cot-house, or cottage. 

Couthie Kind, loving. 

L'0"e. To terrify, to keep 
under, to 1 (p ; a fright, a 
hrunch of furze, broom, 
&c. 

Cowp, To barter, to tumble 
over, a gang. 

Cowpit. Tumbled. 

Cowrin'. Cowering. 

Co>te. A colt. 

Cozie. Snug. 

Cozily. Snuslv. 

Crabbit Crabbed, fretfil. 

Crack. Conversation, to 
converse. 

Craikin'. Conversing. 

Crait, or Coft. A field 
cear a hou^e, in )ld hug- 
bfULdry. 



T)pscrlTe. To descr'be. 

Dtght. To wipe, to clean 
corn from chaff. 

Bight. Cleaned from chafiF. 

Dinna. Do not. 

Ding. To worst, to pufh. 

Dirl. A slight tremulous 
stroke or pain. 

Disjaskit. Jaded, worn out 
with fatigue. 

Dizzen, or Diz'n. A dozen. 

Doited. Stupified, hebe- 
tated. 



Cfalks. Cries or calls in- 
cessantly, a bird. 
Crambo-clink, or crambo- 
jingle. Rhymes, doggerel 

verses. 
Crank. The noise of an nn- 

greased wheel. 
Crankous. Fretiul, captious. 
Cranreuch. The hoar frost. 
Crap. A crop, to crop. 
Craw. A crow of acock, a 

rook. 
Creel. A basket. To have 

one's wits in a creel, to D»lt. Stupified, crazed. 

be crazed, to be fasci- ' Donsie. Unlucky. 

nated. 1 Dool. Sorrow ; to sing 

Creeshie. Greasy. dool, to lament, to mouin. 

Crood, or croud. Tocoo as Dorty. Saucy, nice. 

a dove. j Douce, oi" Douse. Sober, 

Croon. A hollow and; wise, prudent. 

continued mom; to m;ikc Dcmcely. Soberly, pru- 

a noise like the continued [ dentiy. 

roar of a bull; to hum a Di.uglit. Was or were able. 

tune. iDoiue. Stout, durable, 

Crooning. Humming. stubborn, sullen. 

Crouchie. Crook-backed. I Dow. Amor are able, can. 
Crouse. Cheeriul, coura-iDowff. Pithless, wanting 

geous. ! force. 

Crously. Cheerfully, cou- Dowie. Worn with grief, 

ragebusly. \ fatigue, Ac., half asleep. 

Crowdie. A composition of Dowria. Am or are not 

oatmeal and boiled water, able, cannot. 

sometimes from the broth Drap. A drop, to drop. 

of beef, mutton, &c. jDrapping. Dropping. 

Crowdie-time. Breakfast- Drerp. To ooze, to drop. 

time. 'Dreigh. Tedious, long 

Crowlin. Crawling. I about it. 

Crmnmock. A cow with: Dribble Drizzling. 

crooked horns. ' Drift. A drove. 

Crump. Hard and brittle, Droddum. The breech. 

spoken of bread Droop. Rumped, t\at 

Crunt. A blow on the head; droops at the crupper. 

with a cudirel. 'Drouth. Thir.st, drought. 

Cuif. A blockhead, a ninny. 'Drucken. Drunken. 
Cummock. A short staff Drumly. Muddy. 

with a crooked head. iDiumniock. Meal and 
Curchie. A curtsey. water mixed, raw. 

Curler. A player at a gawelDrunt. Pet, sour humour. 

on the ice, practised in Dub. A small pond. 

Scotland, called curling. ! Duds. Rags, clothes. 
Curlie. Curled, whose hair |Duddic. Ragged. 1 

falls naturally in ringlets. , Dung. Worsted, pushed, 
Curling. A well-knoivn driven. 

game on ice. Dush. To push as.i ram, ff:c. 

Curmuri'inir. Murmuring, Diisht. Pushed by a ram, 
light rumbling noise. | ox, ftc. ' 

Cinpin. The crupper. 
Cushat. The dove, or wood-' E. 

piaeon. lEe. The eye. 

Cutty. Short, a spoon I I'.en. The eyes. 

broken in the middle, a E'enin'. Evening. 

short pipe. i Eerie. Frighted, dreading 

I spirits. 
D. ' Eild. Old age. 

Daddie. A father. I Elbuck. The elbow. 

Dattin. Merriment, foolish- Eldritch. Ghastly, fright 

ness. ful. 

Daft. Merry, giddy, foolish En'. End. 
Daimen. Rare, now and Exbrcoh. Edinbukoh. 

then ; daimen iiker, an Eneugh Enough. 

ear of com now and then. [ Especial. Especially. 
Dainty. Pleasant, good- Ettle. To try, attempt 



humoured, aj'.'eeable, 

Dales. Plaii!" '—'loys. 
klins. Darkling. 

Daiid. To thrash, to abuse. 

Daur. To dare. 

Daurt. Dared. 

e piece. 

Daurg, or Dam-k. A day's 
labour. 

■Dautit, or Dautet. Fon- 
dled, caressed. 

Dearies, 
dears. 



Eydent. Diligent. 
F. 



Fa'. Fall, lot, to fall. 
Faddom't. Fathomed. 
Fae. A foe. 
Faem. Foam. 
Faiket. Unknown. 
Fairin. A fairing, e presei-t. 
Fallow. Fellow. 
Fand. Did find. 
Duninutive of i Fail. A cake of bread. 
Fash. Trouble, e; 



Dearthfu'. Dear. trouble, to care for. 

Deave. To deafen. lFa.sht. Ti-uubled. 

Deil-nia-eare. No matter!; Fasten-e'en. Fasten'sEven. 

for all that ! Fanld. A fold , t o fold. 

1>eleerit. Dcliriova. IFkuldlug. Folding. 



IFant TtmU. 
Faw9ont. Decen ., seemlji 

Feal. A field, smooth. 

'Fearfu'. Fiiahtlul. 
Fear't. Frighted. 
Feat. Neat, s'^-ruce. 
Fecht. To fight. 
Fechtin. Fighting 
Feck. Many, plent? 
Feckfu'. Large, brawnjj 

stout. 
Feckless. Puny, weak, 

silly. 
Feg. Fig. 

Feid. Ft',id, enmity. 
Fill. Keen, biting; the 
flesh immediately under 
tlie skin, a field pretty 
level, on the side oi top 
of a hill. 
Fend. To live comfortttb!y, 
Ferlie, or Ferley. Tc won- 
der ; a wonder, a term al 
contempt. 

Fetch. To pull by fits. 

I'etch't. PuUed intermit- 
tently. 

Fidse. To fidget. 

Fieut. Fiend.a pretty oath. 

Fier. Sound, healthy ; a 
brother, a friend. 

Fit. Afoot. 

Fisle. To make a rustling 
noise, to fidget, tc bustle. 

yittie-!an. The nearer 
horse of the hindmos'' 
pair in the plough. 

Fizz. To make a hissing 
noise, like ternxentation. 

Flainen. Flannel. 

Fleeeh To supplicate in a 
flattering manner. 

Fleechin. Snpplicating. 

Fleesh. A fleece. 

Fleg. A kick, a random 
blow. 

Fletherin. Flattering. 

Flether. To decoy by lato 
words. 

Fley. Toscare,tofriirhten. 

Fiitcher. To flutter, as 
young nestlings, when 
their dam appioaehes. 

Flinders. Shi-eds, broken 
pieces 

Flingin-tree A piece oi 
timber hung by way oi" 
partition between tw^ 
horses in a stsble, a flai< 

Flisk. To fret at the yoKP 

Fiiskit. Fretted. 

Flitter. To vibrate like th# 
wings of small birds. 

Flittering. Fluttering, vi- 
brating. 

Flunky. Aservantinlivery 

Foord. A ford. 

Forbears. Forefathers. 

Forbye. Besides. 

Forfaim. Distressed, wom 
out,. faded. 

ForfouL'btcn. Fatigued. 

Forgati To nicet, to 

encou.i;er with. 

Forgie. To forgive. 

Foqaskit. Jaded, won 
out with fatigue. 

Fou'. Full, drunk. 

Foughten. TrotiMed, har« 
rassed. 

Fouth. Plenty, enough. Of 
more than enough. 

Fow. A bushel, &c.,alsoa 
pitch-fork. 

Frae. From. 

Fraeth. Froth. 

Frien". Friend. 

Fu'. Full. 

IHid. The scat, or tall •( 
the hare, coney, &c. 



GLOSSAET. 



541 



Puff. To Mow intermlt- 

I'ufrt. Did Wow. 
Fiuinie. Full of merrimen( 
Fur. A furrow. 
Fuiin. A form, a bench. 
Fyko. Trifling cares; to 

'l)idd'.<!, to be in a fuss 

about trouble. 
Fjle. To eoil, to dirty. 
Fjl't. Soiled, diitied. 

G. 

Gab The mouth, to speak 
boldly, or pertly. 

Gae. To go; gaed, went; 
gaon organCjgone; gaun 
Boin?. 

Gael, Gait, or Gate. Way, 
manner, read. 

Gang. To go, to walk. 

Gar. To make, to force to. 

Gar't. Forced to. 

Garten. A garter. 

Gasli. Wise, sagacious, 
talkative, to converse. 

Gasliin'. (Lnversiug. 

Gaucy. Jollj , large. 

Giar. Riches, goods of any 
kind. 

Geek. To toss the head in 
wantonness or scorn. 

Ged. A pike. 

Gentles. Great folks. 

Gcordie. A guinea. 

Get. A child, a young one. 

Ghaist. A ghost. 

Gie. To give; gied, gaye; 
gieu, given. 

Giitie. Diminutive of gift. 

Gillie. Diminutive of gill. 

Gilpey. A half-grown, half- 
informed boy or girl, a 
romping lad, a hoyden. 

Gimnier. An ewe from one 
to two years old. 

Gin. If, against. 

Gipscy. A young girl. 

Girn. To grin, to twist the 
featuies ill rage, agony, 
convulsion, &c. 

Giruing. Grinning. 

Gizz A periwig. 

Glaikit. Inattentive, fool- 
ish. 

glaive. A sword. 

iianky. Half-witted, fool- 
ish, romping. 

Jlaizie. Glittering, smooth 
like a glass. 

GU'g. Sharp, ready. 

Gley. Asquint, to squint; 
a-Liley, off at a side, 

Glib^alibet. That speaks 
suiuutlily and readily. 

Glint. To peep. 

(iliiitid. Peeped. 

Glintin'. Peeping. 

Gloauiiu'. The twilight. 

Glowr. To stare, to look; 
a stare, a look. 

Glow red. Looked, stared. 

Goavan. Looking in a 
stupid manner. 

Gowau. The wild daisy. 

Gowd. Gold. 

Gowff. Tue game of golf; 
to strike as the bat does 
the IjaUat golf. 

Guwtf'd. .siiiKk. 

Giiivk. A cuckoo, a tsm 
ul contempt. 

Gdwl. To howl. 

Gi ane, or Uiain. A. gToai , 
to i;roan 

Giaiu'd. Groaned. 

ti:»ining. Groanii;^. 

Gruip. A pronged instru- 
ment 'or cleauiu); gtables. 



Graith. Ac<outrements, 
fm-niture, dress. 

Grannie. Grandmother. 

Grape. To grope. 

Grapit. Groped. 

Great. Intimate, familiar. 

Gree. To agree, to bear 
the gree, to be decidedly 
victor. 

Gree't. Agreed. 

Greet. To sl(-»4 tears, to 
weep. 

Greetin*. Cryini , weeping 

Greusome. Loathesomely, 
grim. 

Grippet. Caught, seized. 

Groat. To get the whistle 
of one's groat, to play a 
losing game. 

Grozet. Gooseberry. 

Grumpli. Agrunt, to grunt. 

Grumphie. A. sow. 

Grun'. Ground 

Grunstane A grindstone 

Gruntle. The phiz, agrunt- 
ing noi!#o. 

Grushie. Thick, of thriving 
growth. 

Gdde. The Supreme Being ; 
^;ood. 

Giiid-iuornin'. Good-mor- 
row. 

Guid-e'en. Good-evening. 

Gufdman and Guidwite. 
The master and mistress 
of the house ; young guid- 
man, a man iiewly mar- 
ried. 

Gully, or Gullie. A large 
knife. 

Guidfather, Gui'lmother. 
Father-in-law and mo- 
ther-in-law\ 

Gusty. Tasteful. 



Ha". HaU. 

Ha'-bihle The great bible 

that lies in the hall. 
Hae. To have. 
Haen. Had, participle of 

have. 
Haet, flent haet. A petty 

oathofnegation,notliing. 
Haffet. The temple, the 

ide of the head 
Hatflins. Nearly half, 

partly. 

ag. A scaur or gulf in 

mosses and moors. 
Haggis. A kind of minced 

pudding boiled in the 

stomach of a cow or 

sheep. 
Hain. To spare, to save. 
Hain'd. Spared. 
Hairst. Harvest. 
Haith. A petty oath. 
Haivers. Nonsense, >peak- 

ing without thouglit 
Hal', or Hald. An abiding 

place. 
Hale. Whole, tight, 

healthy. 
Hame. Home. 
Hallan. A partition wall 

in a cottage near the 

doorway. 
Hallow-e'en. The eve of 

All Saints Day, or All 

Hallo \^■s. 
Hamely. Homely, affable. 
Han' or Hatm'. Ifand. 
Hap. An outer garment, 

mantle, plaid, cSrc; to 

wrap, to cover, to hap. 
Happer. Hopper. 
Happing. Hoppinif, 
Hap, step, an' loup 1! op, 

skip, and Jump. 



Harkit. Hearkened. 
Ham. Very coarse linen. 
Hash. A fellow that neither 

knows how to dress nor 

act with propriety. 
Hastit. Hastened. 
Hand. To hold. 
Haughs. Low-lying rich 

lands, valleys. 
Haurl To drag, to peel. 
Haurlin'. Peeling. 
Haverel. A half-witted 

person, half-witted. 
Havins. Good manners, 

decorum, good sense. 
Hankie. A cow, properly 

one with a white face. 
Heapit. Heaped. 
Hcalsome. Healthful, 

wholesome. 
Hearse. Hoarse. 
Hear't. Hear it. 
Heather. Heath. 
Hech ! Oh ! strange. 
Hecht. Promised" to fore- 
tell something that is to 

be got or given ; foretold; 

the thing foretold. 
Hceze. To elevate, to raise. 
Herd. To tend flocks, one 

wlio tends flocks. 
Herrin. A herring. 
Herry To plunder, most 

propeily to plunder birds' 

nests. 
Herryment. Plundering, 

devastation. 
Hersel. Herself. 
Het. Hot. 

Heugh. A crag, a coal-pit. 
Hilch. A hobble, to halt. 
Hilcliin'. Halting. 
Himsel'. Himself. 
Hing. To hang. 
Hirple. To walk lamely, 

to creep. 
H irsel. A herd of cattle, or 

Hock of sheep. 
Histie Dry, ehapt, barren. 
Hitcht. A loop, a knot. 
Hizzie. Hussy, a young 

Hoddin. The motion of a 
sage countryman, riding 
on a carthorse. 

Hog-score. A kind of dis- 
tance line, in curling, 
drawn across the ? ink. 

Hog-shouther. A kind of 
horse-play, by jostling 
with the shoulder ; to 
jostle. 

Hool. Outer-skin or case, 
a nutshell, peas swade. 

Hoolie. Slowly, leisui'ely ; 
take leisure, stop. 

Hoord. A hoard ; to hoard. 

Hoordit. Hoarded 

Horn. A spoon made of 
horn. 

Hornie. One of the many 
names of the devil. 

Host, or hoast. To cough. 

Hostin'. Coughing. 

Hotch'd. Turned topsy- 
turvy, blended, mixed. 

Houghmagandie. bome- 
tlnng improper. 

Hnulet. An owl. 

Housie. Diminutive of 
house. 

Hove. To heave, to swell. 

Hov'd. Heav'd, swelled. 

Howdie. A midwife. 

Howe. Hollow, a hollow 
or dell. 

How ebackit. Sunk in the 
back, spoken of a hoi'se, 
&c. 

Howk. To dig. 



Hclfklt. DIggwl 

Ho vvkin'. Diggitg. 

Hoy. To urge. 

Hoy't. Urged. 

Hoyse. To pul' upwaris. 

Iloyte. To an'.hle crazily. 

Hu'ghoo. Diminutive ot 

Hugh. 
Hurcheon. A hedgehog. 
Hurdles. The loins, tbfl 

crupper. 



I'. In. 

Icker. Ae ear of com. 

Icr-oe. A great-gr and. 
child. 

Ilk, or Ilka. Each, every. 

Ill-willie. Ill-natured, ma- 
licious, niggardly. 

Ingine Genius, ingenuity. 

Iiiijle. Fire, (ire-place 

I'.se. I shall or will. 

Ither. Other, one anoth^a 

3. 

Jad. Jatle ; als9 a familiar 

term among country (olka 

for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk. To dally, to trille. 
Jaiikin'. Tritiing, dallying. 
Jaup. A jerk of water ; to 

jerk as agitated w aler. 
Jaupit. Soiled with sparka 

of mud. 
Jaw. Coarse raillery, to 

pour out, to shut, to jerk 

as water. 
Jillet. A jilt, a giddy 

girl. 
Jimp. To jump, slender in 

the waist, linndsome. 
Jink. To dodge, to turn a 

corner, a sudden turning, 

a corner. 
Jinker. That turns quickly, 

a gay sprightly gill, a 

Jinkiii'. Dodging. 

Jirk. A jerk 

Jocteleg. A kind of knife. 

Jouk. To stoop, to bow the 
head. 

Jow. To jow ; a vertj 
which includes both the 
swinging motion and 
pealing soimd of a largn 
bell. 

Jumlie. Muddy. 

Jundie. To justle. 

K. 
Kae. A daw. 
KaU. Colewort, a kind ot 

broth. 
Kail-runt. The stem a( 

colewort. 
Kain. Fowls, &c., paid M 

rent by a farmer. 
Kebbuck. A cheese. 
Keek. A peep, to peep. 
Kelpies. A sort of mis- 

chiuvous spirits, said to 

haunt fords and ferries at 

night, especially in 

storms. 
Ken. To know; kend, or 

ken't, knew. 
Kennin. A small matter. 
Ket. Matted, hairy, a 

fleece •>( wool. 
Kiaugh. Carking, anxiety. 
Kilt. To truss up the dothei 
Kin. Kindled. 
Kimmer. A young girl, a 

gossip. 
Kin'. Kind. 
King's-hood. A certaJa 

part of the entrails of aa 

animal. 



642 



GLOSSARY. 



Klntn . Ooantry. 

Kim. 1 he harvest supper, 
a Cham. 

Kiiscn To christen or 
baptise. 

Kist. Chest. 

Kitchen. Sauce ; anythins 
that eats with broad, to 
serve for soup, gravv, &c. 

Kittle. To ticlile, ticklish. 

Kittlin'. A youiigcat. 

Kiiag^ie. Like knags, or 
points of rocks. 

Knappiii*-hamnier'. A hara- 
nicr for breakins stones. 

Knowe. A small round 
hillock. 

Kuittle. To cuddle. 

Kuittlin". Cuddling. 

Kye Cows. 

KvLE. A district in Ayr- 
shire. 

Kyte. The belly 

Kythe. To become orident, 
to show one's self. 



Laddie. Diminutive of lad. 

Laggen. Theani^le between 
the side aud bottom of a 
wooden dish. 

Laigh. Low. 

Lairing. Wading, and sink- 
ing in snow, mud, &c. 

Laitn. Loath. 

Liiithfu'. Bashful, sheepish. 

,'^«ill;ins. Lowland dialect. 

Laiubie. Diminutive of 
lamb. 

Lampit. A kind of shell- 
tish. 

Lan'. Land, estate. 

Lane. Lone, my lane, thy 
lane, &c . myself alone. 

Laiiely. Lonely. 

Lang. Long; to think lang, 
to long, to weary. 

Lap. Did leap. 

Lave. The rest, the re- 
mainder, the others. 

Laverock. The lark. 

Xawlan'. Lowland. 

liea'e. To leave. 

Leal. Loyal, true, faithful. 

Lear. Learning. 

Lee-lang. Livelong. 

Lee/e me. A phrase of 
congratulatory endear- 
ment ; I am happy in 
thee, or proud of thee 

Leister A three-pronged 
dart for striking lish. 

Lcugh. Did laugh. 

Leuk. A look , to look. 

Lilt. Sky. 

Lightly. Sneeriugly, to 
sneer at. 

Lilt. A ballad, a tune, to 

Limnier. A kept mistress, 
a strumpet. 

Liui't. Limped, hobbled. 

Link. To trip along. 

Linkin'. Tripping. 

Linn. A watcrlall. 

Lint. Flax ; lint i the bell, 
flax in the flower. 

l!intwhite,Lintie. Alinnet. 

Loan. The place of milk- 
ing. 

Loot'. The palm of the 
hand. 

Loot. Did let. 

Looves. The plural of loof. 

Louu. A fellow, a waggish 
lad. 

JjOwe. A flame. 

liowiu'. Flaminft, 

lowric. Abt'SViatiou of 
lAwreuce. 



Lows*. To loose. 

Lc ws'd. Loosed. 

Lug. The car^ a handle. 

Logget. Having a handle. 

Luggie. A small wooden 

dish with a handle. 
Lum. The chimney. 
Lunch A large piece of 

cheese, flesh, etc. 
Lunt A column of smoke ; 

to smoke. 
Luntiu'. Smoking. 
Lyart. Of a mixed colour, 

grey. 

U. 

Mae. More. 

Mair. More. 

Maist. Most, almost. 

Maistly Mostly. 

Mak. To make. 

Makin'. Making. 

Mallie. MoUy. 

Mang Among. 

Manse. The parsonage 

house, where the minister 

lives. 
Manteele. A mantle. 
Mark, marks. This, and 

severalotliernouns,wliieh 

in English require an s to 

form the plural, are in 

Scotch like the words 

sheep f dect , the same in 

both numbers. 
Mar's year. The year 1715, 

in which the rebellion 

broke out under the Earl 

of Mar. 
Mashlum, meslin. Mixed 

corn. 
Mask. To maah, to infuse 

as tea. 
Ma.skin'-pat. A tea-pot. 
Maukin. A hare. 
Maun. Must. 
Mavis. The thrush. 
Maw. To mow. 
Mawin'. Mowing. 
Meere. A mare. 
Mcldcr. Corn, or grain of 

any kind, sent to the mill 

to be ground. 
Mell. To mingle; also a 

mallet. 
Mclancholious. Mournful. 
Mclvie. To soil with meal. 
Jlcn'. To mend. 
Mcnse. Good manners, 

decorum ; something that 

looks respectable. 
Mcnscless. lU-brcd, rude, 

impudent. 
Merle. The blackbird. 
Mcssin. A small dug. 
Midden. A dunghill. 
Midden-hole. A gutter at 

the bottom of a dunghill. 
Mini. Prim, afl'ectedly 

nu'ek. 
Min'. Mind, remembrance. 
Mind't. .Mind it, resolved, 

intending. 
Minnie. Alotlier, dam. 
Mi.sca'. To abuse, to call 

names. 
Misca'd. Abused. 
Mislear'd. Mischievous, un 

mannerly. 
Misteuk. Mistook. 
Mither. Mother. 
Mixtie-maxtie. Confusedly 

mixed. 
Moistily. To moisten. 
IMony, or Monie. Many. 
Moop. To nibble as asheep. 
Moop and Mell. To eat aud 

consort together. 
Moorlan'. Of or belonging 

wiuoors. 



Morn. The next day, to- 

nioiTOW. 

JIou. The mouth. 

Moudiwort. A mole. 

Slousie. Diminutive of 
mouse. 

Mucklp,or Mlckle. Great, 
big, much. 

Mu>ie. DiminutiTS of 
muse. 

Muslin-kail. Broth com- 
posed simply of water, 
shelled barley and greens. 

Mutchkin. An English 
pint. 

Mysel'. Myself. 

N. 

Na'. No, not, nor. 

Nae. No, not any. 

Naething, or Naithing. 
Nothing. 

Naig. A nag, a horse. 

Nane. None 

Nappy, 
tipsy. 

Negleckit. Neglected. 

Ncehor. A neighbour. 

Neuk. Nook. 

Niest. Next. 

Nieve. The fist. 

Nicvefu'. Handful. 

Nifler. An exchange; to 
excliange ; to barter. 

Nigger. A negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat. A hang- 
man's whip. 

Nit. A nut. 

Norland. Of or belonginj 
to the North. 

Notic't. Noticed. 

Nowte. Black cattle. 



riacii. An old Si;o;ch coin, 

the third part of a Scotch 
penny, 12 of which make 
an English penny. 

Plaitie. Diminutive ol 
plate. 

Flew, orpleugh. A plough. 

Pliskie. A trick. 

Foinil. To seize cattle or 
take goods by legal exe- 
cution. 

Poortith. Poverty. 

Pou. To pull. 

Pouk. To ])luck. 

Poussie. A harp, or cat; a 
demiuc old woman. 

Pout. A poult, a chick. 

Pou't. Did pull. 

Poutherv. Like powder. 

Pow. The head, the skull. 

Po\vnie. A pony, a little 
horse. 

Powther,orpouther. Pow- 
der. 



Brisk-ale, to be I Preen. A pin. 

iPrent. Printing, 



O. 

C. Of. 

Ony, or Onie. Any. 

Or. Is often used for ere, 
before. 

O't Of it. 

Our;.' Kliivering, drooping. 

Ourser, or Oursels. Our- 
selves. 

Outlers. Cattlenot housed. 

Owre. Ovre, too. 

Ow re-hip. A way of fetch 
ing a blow with the 
hammer over the arm. 



Pack. Intimate, familar. 

Paineh. Paunch. 

Paiirick. A partridge. 

I'ang To cram. 

Pariitch. Oatmeal pud- 
ding a well-known 
Scotch dish. 

Pat. Did put, a pot. 

Pattle.orPettle. Aplough- 
stiaff. 

Paughty. Proud, haughty. 

Pauky. Cunning, sly 

Pay't. Paid, beat. 

Pecli. To fetch the breath 
siiort, as In an asthma. 

Pechan. The crop, tire 
stomach. 

Peelin'. Peeling. 

Pet. A domesticated lamb. 

Pcttle. To cherish; a 
ploughswfT. 

Phraise. Fair speeches, 
flattery, to flatter. 

Fhraisin'. Flattery. 

Pickle. A small quantity. 

Pine. Pain, uneasiness. 

Pit. To put. 

Plaead. A public proclama- 
tion, to publish publicly, 

Piacklcss. Penniless, with- 1 Kestit. Stood restive 
gut money. 1 stunted, withered 



Prie. To taste. 

Piie'd. Tasted. 

Prief. Proof. 

Prig. To cheapen, to dis- 
pute. 

Priggin'. Cheapening. 

Primsie. Demure, precise. 

Propone. To lay down, to 
propose. • 

Provoses. Provosts. 

Fund. Pound, pounds. 

Pyle. A pyle o' caflT, a 
single grain of chaff. 

Q. 

Quat. To quit. 
Quak. To ((uake. 
Uuey. A cow from one ta 
two yeais old; a heifer. 

R. 

Ragweed. Herb ragwort. 

Raible. To rattle nonsense. 

Rair. To roar. 

Raize. To madden, to in- 
flame. 

Ram-feezI'd. Fatigued, 
overspread. 

Ram-stam. Thoughtless, 
forward. 

Raploch. Properly a coarse 
cloth, but used as an ad- 
jectiTe for coarse. 

Rarely. Excellently, very 
well. 

Rash. A rush ; rash-buss, 
a bush of rushes. 

Ration. A rat. 

Raucle. Rash, stout, fear- 
less. 

Raught. Reached. 
A row 

Rax. To stretch. 

Ream. Cream; to cream. 

Reaming'. Brimful, fioth- 
ing. 

Reave. Rove. 

Reck. To heed. 

Rede. Coiinse'i , «o counsel. 

Red-wat-shod. Walkiuy 
in blood over the shoe- 
tops. 

Red-wud. Stark mad. 

Ree. Half tipsy, in high 
spirits. 

Reek. Smoke. 

kin'. Smoking. 

lieckit. Smoked, smoky. 

Reisle. A rousing. 

Rcmead. Remedy. 

Requite. Requited. 

Rest. To stand restive. 




Restrict Fd. Restricted. 

Rici. Reef, plenty. 
Ri),'. A ridge. 
Rin. To run, to melt ; riii' 
ain', running. 

Rink Tlie cours! of the 
>toncs, a term in curlinj 
on ice. 

Rii) A handful of un- 
til rushed corn 

Riskit. Made a noise like 
til'' t oaring of roots. 

Rockiii'. An evening 
iiic'iing, one of tlie ob- 
jects of wlilch is spinning 
witli the rock or distaff. 

Rood. Stands likewise for 
the plural roods. 

Roon. A shred. 

iloose. To praise, to com- 
uicnd. 

Roopit. Hoarae, as with a 
cold. 

Roun'. Round, in the cir- 
cle of the neighbourhood. 

Row. To roll, to wrap. 

Row't. Rolled, wrapped. 

Rowte. To low, to bellow 

Rowth. Plenty. 

Rowtin. Lowing. 



GLOSSAKl 



fihecp-shank To think Sonsle. Having sweet, en- 
one's self nae sheep-shank I pacing looks; lucky, 
to be conceited. .lolly 

Sherra-niuir. The battle of' Soom". To swim. 
Sheriff-Moor, fought in Sooth. Truth, a pretty oath. 



Rozet. Rosin. 
Rung. A cudgel 
Runt. The stem of a cole- 
wort or cabbage. 
Eunkled. Wrinkled. 



Bae. So. 

Sart. Soft. 

Sair To serve_, a sore. 

Sairly, or Salrhe. Sorely. 

Sair't. Served. 

Sark. A shirt. 

Sarkit. Provided in shirts, 

Saugh. The wiUow. 

Saul Soul 

Saumont. Salmon. 

Sauut. A saint. 

Saut. Salt. 

Saiv. To sow. 

Sawin'. Sowing. 

Sax. Si.v. 

Scar. To scare, a scare. 

Scaud. To Scald 

Sc'iuld. To scold. 

Sc:iur. Apt to be scared. 

Scawl. A scola. 

Scone. A thin cake of bread. 

Scraich. To scre.am, as a 

hen, partridge, i&c. 
Screed. To tear, a rent. 
Scrieve. To gbde swiftly 

along. 
Bcriven. Gleesomely, 

swittly. 
Scrimp. To scant. 
Scrimpet. Did scant, 

scanty. 
Scunner. A loathing, to 

loathe. 
Seizin'. Seizing. 
Sel. Self; a body's self, 

one's self alone. 
Sell't. DidseU. 
Sen'. To send. 
Scrvan.' Servanu 
Settlin". Settling, to get a 

settlin', to be frighted 

into quietness. 
Shaird. A shred, a shaird. 
Shangan. A stick cleft at 

one end for putting the 

tail of a do^, &c. into by 

way of mischief, or to 

frighten Iiim away. 
8hav( r. A humorous wa j, 

a I'arber. 
Shaw. To show, a sm.ill 

wood in a hollow placi!. 
»h££ii. Brigfet, bhiniiig. 



the Rebellion of 1715 
Sheugh. A ditch, a trench, 

a sluice. 
ShUl. Shrill. 
Shog. A shock, a push off 

at one side. 
Shool. A shovel. 
Shoon. Shoes. 
Shore. To oiler, to threaten. 
Shor'd. Offered. 
Shouther. The shoulder. 
Sic. Such. 
Sicker. Sure, steady. 
Sidelins. Sidelong, slanting 
Siller. Silver, money. 
Simmer. Summer. 
Sin'. Since. 

Skaith. To damage, to In- 
jure, injury. 
Skellum, A worthless fel- 
low. 
Skelp. To strike, to slap; 
to walk with a smart 
trippmg step; a smart 
stroke. 
Skelpi-limmer. A wild girl, 
a term in female scolding 
Skelpin'. Stepping, walk- 
ing. 
Skeigh. Proud, nice, high- 
mettled. 
Sk'.iling. Shrieking, cry- 
ing. 
Skill. To shriek, to cry 

shrilly. 
SkirVt. Shrieked. 
Sklent. Slant, to run 
aslant, to deviate from 
truth. 
Sklented. Ran, or hit, in 

an oblique direction. 
Skriegh. A scream, to 

scream. 
Slae. Sloe. 
Slade. Did slide. 
Slap A gate, a breach in 

a fence. 
Slaw. Slow. 
Slee. Sly; sleest, slyest. 
Sleekit. Sleek, sly. 
Sliddery Slippery. 
Slype. To ftiU over, as a 
wet furrow from the 
plough. 
Slypet. Fell. 
Sma'. Small. 
Smeddum. Dust, powder, 

mettle, sense. 
Smiddy. A smithy. 
Sraoor. To smother. 
Smoor'd Smothered. 
Smyti'ie. A numerous col- 
lection of small indivi- 
duals. 

iKish. Abuse, Billingsgate, 
law. Snow, to snow. 
Snaw-broo. Melted snow. 
Sna\vie. snowy. 
Sued. To lop, to cut off. 
Sneeshin. Snuff. 
Sneeshin-niill. .\ snuff-box. 
Snell. Bitter, biting. 
Snick-drawing. Trick-con- 
triving 
Snick. The latchet of a 

door. 

Snool. One whose spirit is 

broken with ojipvessive 

slavery ; to submit tamely; 

to sneak. 

Snoove. To go smoothly 

and constantlv, to sneak. 

Snowk. To scent or snuff, 

as a dog, horse, &c. 
Snowkit. Scented, snuffed. 



Sowens. A dish made of 
oatmeal soured. Sic, 
boiled up till they make 
an agreeable pudding 
Souple. Flexible, swift. 
Souter. A shoemaker. 
Sowp. A spoonful, a small 
quantity of any thin; 
liquid. 
Sowtii. To try over a tune, 

with a low whistle. 
Sowther. Solder, to solder, 

to cement. 
Spae. To prophesy, to 

divine 
Spaul. The loin bone. 
S)*airge. To dash, to soil 

as vvith mire. 
Spaviet. Having the spa 

vin. 
Speat. Asweepingtorrent, 

after rain or thaw. 
Speel. To climb. 
Spence. The parlour in a 

country house. 
Spier. To ask , to inquire. 
Spier't. Inquired 
Splatter. A splutter, t( 

splutter. 
Spleughaa. A tobacco- 
pouch. 
Splore. A frolie, a noise. 

riot. 
Sprattle. To scramble. 
Spreckled. Spotted, speck 

led. 
Spring. A quick air in 

music.a Scottisli reel. 
Sprit. A tough-rooted 
plant, something like 
rushes. 
Sprittie. Full ot sprits. 
Spurtle. The stick used in 
making oatmeal porridge. 
Spunk. Fire, mettle, .vit. 
Spunkie Mettlesome,flery, 
will-o'-wisp, or iguls- 
fatuus. 
Squad. A crew, a party. 
Squatter. To flutter ir. 
water, as a wildduc-k,iRo 
Squattle. To sprawl 
Squeel. A scream, a screech, 

to scream. 
Stacher. To stagger. 
Stack. A rick of com, hay, 

&c. . 
Staggie. Diminutive of 



Stan'. To stand; stan't 

did stand. 
Stane. A stone. 
Stank. Did stink; a pool 

of standing water. 
Stap. Stop. 
Stark. Stiff, stout. 
Startle. To run as cattle, 

stung by the gadfly. 
Staumrel. A blockhead, 

half-witted. 
Staw. Did steal, to surfeit. 
Stcih. To crain the belly. 
Stcchin' Cramming. 
Steek. To shut, a stitch. 
Steer. To molest, to stir. 
Stceve. Firm, compacted. 
Stell. A still. 
Sten. To bound or rise 

hurriedly. 
Stcn't. Reared. 
Stents. Tribute, dues of 

wiv kind. 
Stibble. Stubble; stlbble- 

rig, the reaper in harvest 

who takes the lead. 



Stty. Steep; stej est, steep. 

est. 
S'ick an' stow. Totally, 

altogether. 
Stilt. A crutch; to limp 

to halt 
Stimpart. The eighth part 

9f a Winchester bushel. 
Stirk. A cow or butlock a 

year old. 
Stock A plant or Miot of 

colewort, cabbage, &c. 
Stockin'. Stocking; throw- 
ing thestoekin', when the 
bride and bridegioom are 
put into bed, and the 
candle out, the former 
throws a stocking at ran- 
dom among the companv 
and the person whom it 
strikes is the next tha 
will be married. 
Stook. A shock of com. 
Stookcd. Made up la 

shocks. 
Stoor. Sounding hollow, 

strong and hoarse. 
Stot. An ox. 
Stoup, or Stowp. Akindol 
jug or dish with ahandla 
Stoure. Dust, more parti 

cularly dust in motion. 
Stowlins. By stealth. 
Stowen. Stolen. 
Strack. Did strike. 
Strae. Straw; to die a fair 
stiae death, to die in bed. 
Straik. Did strike. 
Straikit. Stroked, 
strappan. Tall and hand- 
some. 
Straught. Straight. 
Streek. Stretched, to 

stretch. 
Striddel. To straddle. 
Stioan. To spout. 
Stnddie. An anvil. 
Stumpie. Diminutive of 

stump. 
Strnnt. Spirituous liquor 
of any kind; to walk 
sturdily. 
Stuff. Com or pulse of any 
kind. ' 

Sturt. Trouble ; to molest 
Sturtin. Frighted. 
Sucker. Sugar. 
Sud. Should. 
Sugh. The continued rush- 
ing noise of wind or 
nter. 



Suthron. Southron, an old 

name for the English 

nation. 
Swaird. Sward. 
Swall'd. Swelled. 
Swank. Stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or Siivanker. A 

tight, strapping young 

fellow or girl. 
Sivap. Au exchange, w 

barter. 
Swat. Did sweat. 
Swatch. A sample. 
Swats. Drink, good ale. 
Sweatin'. Sweating. 
Sweer. Lazy, averee; dead- 

sweer, extremely averse. 

Swoor. Swore, did swear. 

inge. To Hat, to whip. 

Swiriie. I'Uiaggy, full of 

knots. 

'Virl. Acurve an eddying 

blast, or pool ; a knot in 

wood. 
Swith. Getaway. 
S.vither. To hesitite ia 

chc icBj an irresolatt 

wavering in choice. 
ISyue Since, aeo, Chen. 



41* 




(14 



GLOSSARY. 



Tacl «ts. Hobnails for driT- 
ing into shoca. 

Tae. A toe ; thiec-tae'd, 
having' three prongs. 

Tak. To take; takin", 
taking. 

Tangle. A sea-weed. 

lap. Tlie top. 

lapetless. Heedless, foolish. 

Tarrow. To murmur at 
one's allowance. 

Tarrow't. Murmured. 

Tarry-breeks. A sailor. 

Taulil, or TaUl. Told. 

Taupie. A foolish, thought- 
less £;lrl. 

tauted.orTautie. Matted 
together, spoken of hair 
or wool. 

fawie. That allows itself 
peaceably to be handle*, 
spoken of a horse , CO w, &c. 

Teat. A small quantity, a 
handful. 

Ten-hours'-bite. A slight 
feed to the horses wi.ile 
in the joke in the fore- 
noon. 

Tent. Aield pulpit, heed, 
caution ; to ^ike heed. 

Tentie. Heedful , cautious. 

Tentless. Heedless. 

Teu^'h. Tough. 

Thack. Tfeateh ; thack an" 
rape, clothing, necess- 
aries. 

Thae. These. 

Thairms. Small«rut8,fiddle- 
strin^s. 

Thank it. ThanktM. 

Tliegiiher. Toaether. 

Themscls. Theiii.'elves. 

Thick. Intimatu. amiliar. 

Thieveless. Coid, dry, 
spited, spoken of a per- 
son's demeanouj 

Thir. Tliese. 

Thirl. To thrill. 

Thirled. Thrilled, nwatcd. 

Thole. To suft'er.to endure. 

Tliowe. A thaw, to thaw. 

Thowless. A want of en- 
ergy, Ungerless. 

Thrang. 13usy, crowded. 

Thrapple. Throat, wind- 

Tlnaw. To sprain, to twist, 

to eontradn;t 
Thrawin'. Twisting, &c. 
Thrawn. Sprained, t\visted, 

contradicted, contradic- 
tion. 
Threap To maintain by 

dint of assertion. 
Thresliin*. Thrashing. 
Threteen. Thirteen. 
Thristle. Thistle. 
Through To go on with 

to make cut. 
Througt-c JLcs. PfU-afci., 

confuaeciy. 
ttud. Ofo' make a lowi 

interntittent noise. 
Ihumpit. Thumptd. 
Thyael'. Thyse'J. 
TiU't. To it. 
Timmer. limber, 
tine. 70 lose; tint,lo«t 
TioUer. ATiiak«t 



Tij.. A ram. 
Tipijence. Twopence. 
Tirl. To make a slight 

noise, to uncover. 
Tirlin'. Uncovering. 
Tither. The other. 
TRtle. To whisper. 
Tittlin'. Whispering. 
Tocher. Marriage portion. 
Tod. A fox. 
Toddle. To totter like the 

walk of a child. 
Toddlin'. Tottering. 
Toom. Empty. 
Tonp. A ram 
Toun. A hamlet, a farm- 
house. 
Tout. I he blast of a horn, 

or trumpet, to blow a 

horn, &c. 
Tow. A rope. 
Towmond A twelvemonth. 
Towzie. Rough, shaggy. 
Toy. A cap of an old fasliion 

in female head-dress. 
Tovte. To totter like old 

age. 
Transmogrify'd. Transmi- 

L'ra ted , metamorphosed. 
Trashtrie Trash. 
1 1 icide. Full of tricks. 
Trig Spruce, neat. 
Trimly. Excellently. 
Trow. To believe. 
Trowth. Truth, a petty 

oath. 
Try't. Tried. 
Tuir. Raw hide, of which, 

in old times, plough traces 

were frequently made. 
Tulzie. A quarrel; to 

quarrel, to fight. 
Twa, Two. 
Twa-three A few 
'Twad It would. 
Twal. Twelve ; twal-penny 

worth, a small quantity, 

a pennyworth. 
N U. One penny English 

is 12d. Scots. 
Twin. To part. 
Tyke. A dog. 

U. 

tJnco. Strange, uncouth, 
verj very gre.it.prodifci- 
ous. 

Uncos. News. 
Unkenn'd. Unknown. 
Unskaith'd. Undamaged, 

unhurt. 
Upo'. Upon. 



Vap'rin. Vapouring. 
Vera. Very. 
Virl. A ferule. 



W. 

Wa'. "Wall ; wa's, walls. 
Wabster. A weaver. 
Wad. Would, to bet, a 

bet, to pledge. 
Wadna. Would not. 
Wae. Woe, soricwfiil. 
Waesucks! or waes me! 

Alas! Oh, the pity! 
Waft. The cross thread 

that goes from the shuttle 

ttua.ghthe web. 



Waifu*. Wailing. 

Wair. Tolayoutjtoexpend. 

Wale. Choice, to chouse. 

Wal'd. Chose, chosen. 

Walie- Ample, large,, jolly; 
also an interjection of 
distress. 

Wame. The belly. 

Wainefou'. A bellyful. 

War.ohjnsie. Unlucfcy. 

Wanrfstfu". Restless. 

Wark. Work. 

Wark-lumc. A tool to 
work with. 

Warle, or Warld. AVorld. 

Warlock. A wizard. 

Warly. Worldly, eager on 
amassing weattn. 

Wanan". A warrant, to 
warrant. 

AVarst. Worst. 

Marstrd, or Warsl'd, 
Wre.■^tled. 

Wastrie. Prodigality 

Wat. Wet; I wat, I wot, 
I know. 

AVater-brose. Erose made 
of meal and water simply, 
without the addition o'' 
milk, butter, &c. 

AVattle A twig, a wand. 

AVanble. To swin^, to reel. 

Waukit, Thickened, as 
fullers do cloth. 

Waukriftv Not apt to sleep. 

AVam'. AVorse, to worst. 

A\:iur't. Worsted. 

Wcan.or AVeanie. A child. 

Wearie, or Weary. Many 
a ^^eary body. Many a 
different person. 

AA'eason. A\'easand. 

AVee Little; wee thing':, 
little ones; wee bit, a 
small matter. 

AA'cel. AVell ; weelfare, wel- 
fare. 

AVeet. Rain, wetness. 

AVe'se. AA'e shall. 

AVIia. AVho. 

\^ hai/le. To wheeze. 

AVhalpit. AVhelpcd. 

AVhang. A leathern string, 
a piece of cheese, bread, 
&c ; to give the strap- 
pado. 

AA'hare. Where; whare'er, 
wherever. 

AAheep. To fly nimbly, to 
jerk; penny- A'heep, small 
beer. 

Whase. ANTiose. 

AA'hatreck. Nevertheless. 

AA'hid. The motion of a 
hare, running but not 
friiihted; a lie; 

AA'hiddin'. Running as a 
hare or coney. 

AVhigmaleerics. Whims, 
fancies, crochets. 

Whingin". Crying, com- 
plaining, fretting. 

AA'hirligigums. Useless or- 
naments, trifling appen- 
dages. 

AA'hissle. A whistle, to 
whistle. 

AA'hisht, Silence; to hold 
one's whisht, to be silent. 

Whisk. Xo sweep, to lash. 



Whisklt. Lashed. 

AA'liitter. A hearty draughl 
of liquor. 

AA'hun-stane. A whinstona 

AVhylcs. AA'hiles, some- 
timeo. 

AVi'. With. 

Wick . To strike a stone li 
an oblique direction, ( 
tenn in curling. 

Wiel. A small whirlnool 

Wifie A d'niinr.tive oi 
endearing t( ITU for wife. 

AVimple. To neander. 

AA'impl't. Meandered. 

AA'implin'. Wavmg, mem- 
deling. 

Win". To wind, to winnow, 

AA'in'. Wind; w'rs, winds 

AVin't. AVindei, as a bub 
bin of yam. 

AAinna. AVill not. 

AA'innock. A window. 

AVinsomc. Hearty, vauntle 
gay. 

AAintle. A staggering mo- 
tion ; to stagtrer, to reel. 

Winze. An oath. 

AA'iss. To wish 

AA'ithouttcn. Without. 

AA'izen'd. Hidp-bound, 

dried, shrunk 

AA'onner. A wonder, a con- 
temptuous appellation. 

AA'oo'. AVool. 

AVoo. To court, to make 
love to. 

AA'oodie A rope, more pro- 
perly one made of withj 
or willows. 

AA'oocr-bab. The garter 
knotted below the knee 
with a couple of loops. 

AA'ordy. AA'orthy. 

AVoreet Woi'sted. 

AA'rack. To teaze, to vex. 

Wraith. An apparition 
exactly like a living per- 
son, whose appearance is 
said to forbode the per- 
son's approacning death. 

AA'rang. AVron^, to wrong 

Wreath. A drifted heap ol 
snow. 

AVud. Mad, distracted. 

Wumble. A wimble. 

AVyliecoat. A tlannel vest 

Wyte. Blame, to blame. 

T. 

Ye. This prononn is fie- 

quently used for thou. 
Yearns. Longs mucli. 
Yearlings. IBorn in the 

same year, coevals. 
Year. Is used both for 

singular and plural years. 
Yell. Barren, tliat gives ao 

milk. 
Y'erk. To lash, to jerk. , 
A'erkit. Jerked, lashed 
Yestreen. Yesternight. 
Yill. Ale. 
Vird. Earth. 
Yokin. Yokiw, aboul 
Yont. Beyond. 
A'ourse.'. Yourself. 
A'owe. An ewe. 
Yowie Dim<inutiveo/j*«» 
Yule. Ctu:isuuM< 




lUllllllllIllllllliUlllilllllllllJIIIIIIIIIllllilllllllllU.miilllllllllllliltllUlllllllillllllllllllllltlUlllilUllllllllllllI!^^ 



tiUm nf €kmU tn lunti 



[Compare with Letters Nos. 83 and 84. pp. 

301 and 302.] 

FOR MR. ROBERT BURNS, 

CARE OK MR. CRUIKSHANK. 

2, St. James's Square, 

December 8th, 1787. 
This is truly a g^reat source of vexation 
and discouragement. It seems really as if 
some malignant foredoom had determined 
that we should not meet, and that none of 
our little arrangements should be consum- 
mated. But if 1 lament the disappointment* 
which once more prevents us from enjoying 
that delicate "converse of soul," or "feast of 
reason," which I have promised myself in 
your society, how much more keenly do I 
feel for its cause ! 

What a profusion of sentiments, and such 
hke, has this accident not marred ! perhaps 
even choked in the earliest incipient develop- 
ment ! 

When you flatter me with the idea of being 
a favourite of yours, you little know " how 
subtle is the unction." I have longed and 
longed that Miss Nimmo, who was blessed 
with your acquaintance, would have impartec' 

* Ab will be noticed in the foregoing Notes 
to the Correspondence, in rei^peet of the first 
two letters of Burns to Clarinda, the poet had 
been enfirased to take tea with Mrs. M'Lehose 
on the 6th ('1 hursday). She had then deferred 
the entertainment of the poet until this day, 
Saturday the 8th, when an accident, causing 
Mvere ii\}ury to hi^ leg^ laid ttim up. 



a small share of that blessiof to me, bi 
making us known to each other. But when 
you were informed that I was a poetess, you 
were mislead by the pleasant irony of our 
mutual and gentle friend. That I am 
passionately fond, nay, even "abandoned" 
(save the word !) to poetry, is true ; that I 
have, from time to time, done something in 
the way of rhyme is true enough; but that I 
have ever written poetry, I fear, is no " true 
bUl." 

How exquisite are the lines* which you 
send me ; not only for the dedicate nature of 
the flattery, to which every woman is a little 
alive, but as poetry. Do not think that I am 
weak enough to be spoiled by such adulation. 
It is a poet's adulation, and, as you yourself 
observe, "Fiction is the native region of 
poetry." I doubt even, if ten years earlier in 
life, I should have suffered myself to be 
"befooled" by eren such beautiful, simple, 
and musical praise as yours. 

But now for my own poetical aspirations, 
or for my own claim to poetical inspiration. 
Look over the following; I look to your 
candour, not your compliments. You will 
admit that they possess anything in verse 
except the spirit of poetry. 
[Here follow the "Lines to a Blackbird.''-^'] 

Do not forget to let me hear of you or 
fro7n you, or both, as often as convenient; 

* Alluding to some verses enclosed in Burns't 
note, to which this was a reply. 

■f These lines, modified by IJums, and with 
the addition of four lines of his own^ ajtpearad 
in the Seott Mutical Museum, 



648 



LETTERS OF CLAEINDA 



for you know the rigid forms of the world 
now keep us apart, otherwise than by tliis 
sort of converse. But we must and shall 
meet, and till then be of good cheer. I 
console myself in my disappointment by the 
thought of what gratification is in store for 
me, and with the sensation, that this pleasure 
is daily aocumulating intensity. Adieu. 
A.M. 



NO. II. 

FOR MR. ROBERT BURNS. 

2 St. James Square, 

Bee. I6th, 1787. 

I nAD no idea till last night that Miss 
Ninimo was so nearly concerned in your 
accident. She is now laying to her own 
charge a share of the cause of it. 

You are well attended. — I know of no 
better surgeon and worthier man than Mr. 
Wood ; and the knowledge that you are 
under his care, if you will but have patience, 
and follow his directions, reassures me con- 
siderably. 

What letters you write! Do you think 
you are addressing a love-lorn foolish girl of 
sixteen ? Have you any idea your corres- 
pondent is a married woman, and a widow 
Duly in temporary separation — a widow of 
the heart rather than of the law ? 

You are not likely to play Jacob over 
again, and serve your seven years, and your 
seven years again, in expectation of this 
shadow of future happiness, nor do you 
know yourself; at least, I tliink not. But 
do let me entreat you not to fatigue yourself 
with too much writing, or to wofk yourself 
up with excitement. I can rely upon daily 
intelligence of you through Miss Nimmo ; 
and I would not have you do anything to 
retard your recovery. For heaven's sake, be 
calm, and patient, and quiet, and we shall 
eouu have the pleasure of your society again. 
A. M. 



NO. III. 

Wompare with Letter No. 85, p. 302.] 
Bee. 20th, 1787. 

I KNOW you too well ; at least I think so, 
to suspect you of really transgressing the 
uuvaryiag lioundary of true decorum, much 



more the limits of honour. I have, if [ mis. 
take i.ot, thoroughly read your character in 
your imperishable poems. I have perceived 
an impetuous generosity and high-minded- 
ness, which are apt to overlook the ordinary 
regulations, observed or feigned by sordid 
souls, and in their own native purity 
to be heedless of the interpretations of 
the world. But those interpretations — those 
constructions ! Do they not require some 
more guarded consideration? Were I your 
judge, alas ! I do not think even your 
" handsome troop of follies " would meet 
with much reproof; for " undisciplined" as 
they be, they are as much a part of what I 
am obliged to admire in your character, as is 
that indomitable independence which dis- 
tinguishes you itself 

I am much joyed to hear that you are so 
greatly improving with respect of your 
wound — but as to calling you a "stupid 
fellow," I do not think either you or I would 
have much consciousness of attaching 
meaning to the expression. I have proposed 
to myself a more pastoral name for you, 
although it be not much in keeping with 
the shrillness of the Ettrick Pipe. What 
say you to Sylvander? I feel somewhat less 
restraint when I subscribe myself 

Clarinda.* 



[Reply to Letter No. 85, pp. 302, 303.] 
Bee. 2\st, 1787. 

I HAV3 just received your long and too 
pleasing letter, and seize a few moments to 
write some acknowledgments before I leave 
town, which will be to-morrow morning. I 
am at a loss where to begin ? Is it to you or 
to Dr. Gregory, that I should first reply ? 
Wliat will become of the severer discipline 
to which I must subject my natural foiblea 
•lid vanities ? 

I should be devoid of that strong sense (A 
gratitude for good which characterises all 
innocent hearts, did I acknowledge ox feel 
myself unhaj)py. No, no ! Sylvander, that 
is not the word. I am not unhappy I The 
trials and misfortunes which T have under- 
gone, and at which, I fain would shudder, 

• This is the first letter which had been 
siprned in the assumed name of Clarinda, and 
it has been omitted and described as waiitiiijf 
in all the previous editions of this Correspond' 
euce. 




<MtS> 




TO BUENS. 



541 



tven now, in the retrospective glance at them, 
ere of tlie past. But I have done no wrong ; 
I am conscious of no misdoing; I am innocent; 
and therefore, I am not imhappy. I beheve 
even tliose misfortunes to which you recal 
my memory with lamentation, have much 
contributed to chasten those keen sensibili- 
ties of which I am made up, and to make me 
as capable of the real enjoyments of life as I 
now am. I have sought Religion, nor have 
I sought it in vain. And could you but 
catch a glimpse of her in the benign, seemly 
garb and aspect in which she has answered 
to my appeals of sorrow, you would fain see 
in her the real. ultimate, mid orJy comforter! 
Cn my return here, which I expect will 
take place towards the middle of next week, 
that is, after Christmas day, I will reply to 
your letter more categorically ; but do not 
speak of our correspondence, for innocent as 
I am, and conscious as I am of that inno- 
cence, you know how censorious are those 
whose vulgar minds are incapable of a similar 
communion. — Farewell 1 may God bless you 
and keep you. Clakinda. 



[Compare with the last, i.e. No. 4."] 

January \st, 1798. 

Tins shall be, at all events, a partial 
fulfilment of the promise by which I bound 
myself in my last, to treat of your letter a 
little more at length, and more categorically. 
In the first place, however, let me tell you 
that I have been paying a visit to a country 
friend of mine, who runs complete riot in her 
praise and admiration of you, and whose 
personal endowments and charms would 
1. ike her a truly worthy Clarinda to such a 
Sylvauder. You have once met this fair 
admirer of yours at the house of Mrs. Bruce, 
and I must take some occasion, sooner 
or later, of making you personally acquainted, 
as I am sure the admiration will be reciprocal. 
Before I proceed to your letter, let me wish 
you all the kindest, best, and most humane 
of \\ ishes on this first day of a new year, in 
which, with the help of heaven, may you 
number your days by enjoyment, and the 
accession of a year by wisdom. Now for 
your epistle, respecting which, let me first 
thank you for the touching lines which you 
enclose.* 

*■ Lines addressed to Clarinda, as they are 
now inserted auion^st the Poetical Works, in 
Uae former i)art of this volume. 



That Dr. Gregory should tiave found mine 
wanting, in many respects, s not to be won- 
dered at. The faults I had observed myself; 
but they were 2)art of the verses, and I, as 
incapable of amending, as I had been 
incapable of suppressing the expression of a 
particular sentiment. All my grammatical 
knowledge is merely that which is acquired 
by the habits of conversation, writing, or 
reading. I was never taught. 

I think I may rightly interpret your senti- 
ment that " there is no corresponding with 
an agreeable woman without a mixture of 
the tender passion." How little do the 
majority of the children of the world feel or 
appreciate the sentiments of love and friend- 
ship ! How coarsely and constantly do they 
not misapply the one, and desecrate the 
other ! 

That a gentte sentiment should be inevi- 
tably commingled in the communion between 
the sexes, where delicacy of sentiment, 
extreme, nay exquisite sensibility and lofty 
consciousness of innocence preside, is natural 
and intelligible. It is the more essentially 
entitled, in this case, to the pure appellation 
of love, that it is free from all the gross 
pursuits of selfish gratification; that it is 
devoted solely to the elevated purpose of 
conveying real happiness to its object; in 
fact, that it is honest and unpolluted. In 
such a manner, why should not an intercourse 
of sympathy and intelligence exist between 
those of diiferent sexes? I would frankly 
avow that I think it might, and does in 
perfect innocence ; and I do not feel that I 
should be bound to discard even the term 
which implies the utmost tenderness. 

Nor should we reject the conditions sap- 
plied by circumstance. It is from circum- 
stance, really, that the purest philosophy 
(I mean the wisdom of life) is to be acquired. 
Had you reflected on this, — had you subjected 
my career to the test of comparison with 
circumstance, — had you formed a j ust estimate 
of my character, after this moralizing 
fashion, you would not have deplored that 
any "malignant demon should have been 
permitted to dash my cup of life and sorrow." 
On the contrary, the all-wise Disposer of the 
world, estimating the peculiar bent of that 
supremacy of passion (corrigible for good, or 
capable of running wild for evil), has sub- 
jected it to the schooling, tempering, and 
subduing which were requisite. Thus, by 
calling religion to our aid in the considera- 
tion of ourselves, our lives, our fortune, or 
our misfortune, may we distinguish in each 
sorrow a chastening and gentle provision for 
more enduring happiness than is to tM 




650 



LETTERS OF CLARINDA 



gathered from the sunny field of a perishable 
prosperity ! 

Wherefore do I tenderly believe in the 
" unknown state of being," in which, as you 
say, we shall one day meet for endless com- 
munion of unalloyed affection ! Consider : 
should we attain it, except it were througli 
the trials of wliich you complain? But to 
what unlimited extent of gravity am I not 
tending? Shall I not thus surfeit you of 
my sentiments? Will you not condemn 
our correspondence to an untimely and 
abrupt cessation, on account of the tedium 
with which I oppress you? But you should 
not: I feel, and must express all I feel. 
I know no reserve; and in that true and 
heartfelt interest for your happiness, I cannot 
help preaching a doctrine which, I believe, 
may compass it, though it be tardily. It is 
your fault to dash at the first impulse of 
a generous, but tumultuous passion, " into 
mid stream." You would forestall events, 
or deprecate the turn of affairs, from which 
you are to derive all the good which is in 
store for you. 

I am still engaged in reading those poems 
in which your character is so indelibly writ, 
and which will inevitably perpetuate the 
record of your foibles, as well as of your 
loftier qualities. Do favour me with any 
scraps you can spare. Perhaps, also, from 
time to time, you will allow me the freedom 
of expressing the ideas which they suggest, 
the merits which I observe, or even the faults 
which I may distinguish. IIow much am I 
uot pleased, that Dr. Gregory, whose reputa- 
tion for virtue, as well as for genius, is so 
generally acknowledged, should be numbered 
amongst your trusty friends. If for this 
alone, I should like to be acquainted with 
him; for there must be &Je ne S(;ais quoi that 
is kindred in us, for the acceptation and 
discernment of your character, to have been 
eommon to us both. 

I look upon him as a warm friend of mine, 
also, although we are not even acquainted. 
There is some unseen link between us. But 
I weary you, and must wish you good bye. 
Clarinda. 



[Repln to a Letter from Burns, which i* 
wantiii(/.'\ 
Friday, January ith, 1788. 

Melancholy is really one of the first 
of incentives to the record of our sentiments 



in verse, and the univerjal gaiety of the 
season recoils npon me with a sense of deso- 
tiun, and makes me insuparably melancholy. 
It is the season of household enjoyments cf 
home happiness, and you know 1 have uone. 
What, wonder, then, if, on receiving youf 
lines, I should venture upon a reply " in 
kind ? " I cannot resist the impulse, how- 
ever inadequate be my capacity. Look to it. 
Here are my lines. 

[_T/ie lines opening, " Talk not of Love! it 
gives me Pain," were here inserted.^ 

I have not, for some time, heard how youi 
recovery proceeds. Miss Ninuno, even, has 
not been my companion of late ; and, I 
should, therefore, like to hear an account of 
progress directly from yourself. Does it not 
strike you as very quaint and droll, that w« 
two, who have only met once in person 
should be carrying on so persistent an inter- 
course by means of pen and ink ? If you 
could possibly venture as far as this, in some 
conveyance, I should be happy to receive you 
to-morrow evening, as 1 ought to have done 
nearly a month ago. If you can oome, do 
uot omit to take every care of yourself. 

Clabinoa^ 



[Reply to No. 86, pp. 303, 304.] 

January 6 th, 1788. 

How was I not delighted, my dear friend, 
with your letters of last night ! I do not 
know why so lively an interest should he 
excited in one's heart or recollection, by the 
description of an early love-scene, if it be 
not, that all of us have felt the rapture of 
such meetings once, aikl only once, in oui 
lives. The indelible impression which such 
an incident makes upon the mind, is, 1 appre 
bend, the result of the singularity of the 
feelings which accompany it, and which 
never recur. I do not know whether a 
greater degree of interest is not created in 
me by the fact, that you instal me as your 
confidant, and unreservedly lay bare your 
foibles and follies to me. This complete 
confidence adds much charm to your letters. 
I cannot resist the fulness of feeling — of 
sympathy — which it arouses. I can reca] 
similar recollections of my own. Nor do i 
believe that, in all the lofty sentiment, re. 
fined delicacy, and keener discernment of 
maturer years, there is auytliing which can 




-i<i;) 







TO BURNS. 



551 



e<i\ial the rapture of an early — a first and 
rural love-interview. 

But to reason on other matters : — Wh/ 
are you so bitter an adversary of Calvinism? 
Your avow al confirms tlie dread which had 
been awakened by some of your satirical 
poems. Wherefore, my dear Sylvander, will 
you irapn^n these doctrines which are so dear 
to me ? You should uot charge a creed with 
the failings, nay, even the knaveries of its 
professed ministers. Where will you find a 
Beet which numbers uo hypocrites ? Calvin- 
ism is amongst my strongest and dearest 
convictions, and stands confirmed in ray con- 
science by the best examples — that of an an- 
gelic mother, whom Host when quite young, 
and that of the only true and devoted friend 
whom I have since possessed. It was not the 
creed which I was taught in infancy, and, 
therefore, does not consist in the attachment 
of prejudice. 

My father was attached to Arminianism; 
and 1 myself continued in the profession in- 
culcated by my education, until the friend to 
whom I allude, forced conviction upon me ; 
and if I may record a more peaceful and con- 
fident state of mind aud hope, since the 
period of this conviction (which I certainly 
can do), may I not infer, that the true 
mission of religion, that of inspiring forti- 
tude, long suffering, confidence, hope, resig- 
nation, and complete peace of mind, has 
been fulfilled by this means ? You little 
think, Sylvander, how deeply, how seriously 
our lives, our thoughts, our deeds — every- 
thing — is alfccted by a thorough religious 
conviction ! It is a sad reflection for me, 
Tvho hold your well-being so dear, to think 
that the misdoing of meu should have so 
warped that brilliant understanding with 
wliich God has gifted you, as to have driven 
you almost from the capability of patiently 
entertaining thoughts of this kind. Would 
to heaven, I could prevail with you in this ! 
Would, that you should seriously try the 
merits of such objections as occur to you 1 
Yet. may I not flatter myself, thaf my Syl- 
vander is not without esteem for my ordi- 
nary judgment. No event would exercise so 
much influence for my gratification, as the 
knowledge, the assurance, that you would 
entertain the question. Do not be wearied 
with my reflections ; do not allow yourself 
to give way to the first impulse of ridicule. 
And when you are seriously inclined, and 
can reason with me calmly, and leisurely, 
turn your attention to this letter. 



square, or on the close? If on the square^ 
I shall have, at least, the small gratification 
of exchanging glances of recognition with 
you to-morrow afternoon, or the day after, 

as I shall be in that neighbourhood. • 

Beware of wedlock, unless you can meet with 
a mate equally ardent in love with yourself. 
You say you fear the improbability of your 
meeting with such a companion ; do not, 
therefore, be precipitate, lest after " marriage 
in haste, you repent at leisure." I ha^e 
many things to say, which I would fain 
write; but it is an endless affair to write the 
long stories which might be uttered in a 
short half-hour of sweet companionship. So, 
till we meet, let me defer some of these 
burthens which I would gladly have lifted 
from me. Adieu. Write soon. 

Clarinda. 



How is it with the aspect of your apart- 
lieutii ? Dc jour windows look out on the 



NO. ▼III. 

January," 1783. 

I HAVE been equally disappointed with 
yourself. I had, as you know, promised 
myself " a glance of recognition," which 
should be mutual from the window of your 
prison. The weather has been very unfa- 
vourable ; and I have been obliged to remain 
in-doors ; in addition to which, my youngest 
child is very ailing. So much so, that for the 
last tduee or four nights, I have had little 
time for rpst. The " bottle " has evidently 
not impaired your intellect, or your feeling*, 
but I should think your companions had not 
been exactly to your taste ; and I take it as 
a most unpremeditated compliment, that 
you should turn from those ill assorted 
beings, to our mutual intercourse, to pour 
out the fulness of your heart. How often 
do I not feel, that there are few of fellow- 
feeling with my own intense sensibility, aud 
that the majority, consequently, misinterpret 
the warmth and unrestrained overflowings of 
my heart ! iMy poor child is fretful again, and 
is evidently suffering, and I really do believe, 
I cannot be auytiiing else but a good and 
tender mother. What should you think of 
a mean-spirited woman who should be sur- 
prised at my attachment to children, whom 
I owe to an unnatural husband ? Such was, 
however, the actual exclamation of an ac- 
quaiutance yesterday. I could not restrain 
the bitterness of my reply to a suggestion, 
which was unfeeling as regards me, as it wag 



48 



• Probably about the 9th, 10th, or 11th, 



652 



LETTERS OF CLARINDA 



•iTiTiatura] towards the poor helpless innocent 
children. Uo I not feel that I owe them a 
double share of parental love ? 

Besides this, their father's misdoing is 
their misfortune ; and this misfortune alone, 
apart from the tender ties to which it relates, 
would constitute a bond of attachment. 
With what a keen relish and sense of grati- 
fication do I not read Fielding's Amelia. 
You have, doubtless, read it, and have, like 
me, admired, nay, felt the domestic tender- 
ness, which could only have been portrayed 
by one who deeply felt it. Can you not ad- 
mire a Booth in his ardent, but thoughtless 
attachment, before a cold, calculating hus- 
band, whose artificial virtues are as repulsive 
as the reckless vices of the other. It is so 
like you! I could love and forgive him, but 
should shrink with abhorrence from the 
other. 

Of your religious reflections, anon. I am 
not in a controversial mood at this moment, 
and do not like to give away a vantage in a 
matter of such consequence. I iiave been 
rambling away on any subject which came 
uppermost, for lack of intelligence to convey. 
VVho in the world is she of whom you rave 
with such frenzied passion, and of whom you 
would not have me " guess ? " Can it be 
your Jean ? If so, the indelible nature of 
an attachment which has so constantly 
outlived the tirst gratification of mere desire, 
is an undeniable evidence of real, pure devo- 
tion. It does you honour, as it will con- 
tribute, one day or other, to your happiness. 
1 receive your " good wishes," and you well 
know, that mine as constantly attend you. 
And if there be a guardianship whereby one 
spirit is sutfered to exercise its never-failing 
agency in defence of another, Sylvander, my 
Boul ia watching over you this night. 

Clakinda. 



January* 1788. 

The morning opens auspiciously. This it 
the first bright day which we have seen this 
week ; and it is the first morning also, on 
which ray poor child awakes refreshed by 
calm and uninterrupted sleep of some hour*' 
duration. I think, at last, I may promise 
myself the fuUilmeut of the expe tatiott 

• This letter was evidently written on tke 
day following after that in which the orego- 
UiK (No. 8) w.is penned. Both of tliese lelters 
were probably sent by the same carrier. 



which both of us have entertained for several 
days, of a silent interview between your 
window and the square. This is the third 
time I announce thf- intended \isit. Bruce 
did not despair at the seventh. We seem to 
be peculiarly unlucky in our ai>pointment3. 
The first, second, and third, in which I pro- 
mised myself the pleasure of your company, 
were equally frustrated by trivial, or gra\e 
circumstances. Perhaps, however, this was 
a dispensation which should lead to a more 
unreserved communion of our most setfet 
thoughts and feelings, than would have 
resulted from the formalities of society. 1 
fancy we have become more thoroughly and 
mutually acquainted, than we otherwise 
should have done ; and, I trust, we have both 
of us prolited in consequence. Be of good 
cheer, Sylvander ! Clarinda will not ever 
continue to be one of those will-o'-the- 
wisps — those visionary beings which are 
doomed to elude the realization ; and, if the 
strange destiny which presides over our 
meeting, be at last propitious, this afternoon, 
at two, I will be revealed, as I am— your 
own 

C1.ARIX0A 



How WM it I coidd not discover you, even 
in the loftiest regions of the square ? Twice 
did 1 return, to make the search in vain, upon 
some pretext which satisfied me sufficiently 
to warrant the inquiring gaze. It was not 
that I did not survey the topmost stories. 
Can you not give me a more definite idea of 
the whereabouts to search ? Something 
seemed to say to me, that you did not 
descry me either. I am grateful for your 
kind and tender inquiries respecting my boy. 
No very decided change has taken place, nor 
can we expect it yet. It will be a long ailair, 
even if he recover. And patience is a 
virtue, which, in this case, must necessarily 
be practised. 

Of the conversion of which you speaK^ 
Sylvander, I should like to hear more. iio\» 
has it been effected ? And how have I partici- 
pated in its agency? If it be a real conver- 
sion, or a conversion from some of those huram 
scanim vagaries which render the unbridled 
son of fancy the sport of his own whim; — the 
latter even were something ; but if it be 
conversion on subjects of yet higher conse. 
quence, how shall I glory to have effected it 

But why the wild frenzy of passion with 
which you assail me ? It boats little to level 



vT^ ' 




TO BURNS 



^53 



imrrecafl Ois at ties, acd laws, and fashions. 
For wliat if they were not ? Think you 
'twould be conducive to the substantial liap- 
piiiess of Clariuda? I am at a loss to 
understand you. But, perhaps, also, 'twere 
better that you should preserve the veil of 
-•vystenj which it may not be fit to rai^^e from 
your rhapsody. Are you not sati^licd with 
the unity, the integrity of a friendsliip, than 
•ii'hi:h, nothing can be more earnest, pure, 
dsvoted, and immutable ? 

Dissolve the ties of which you complain, 
tnd what do either of us gain ? Some ro- 
mantic dream of Utopia ; but little or no 
reality. What have either of us to depend 
upon ? 

Why do you not number Miss Nimmo in 
the same category as Miss Chalmers ? How 
flattered ought I not to be, to be thus asso- 
ciated and to be compared with that incom- 
parably admirable woman I I do not think, 
however, you have a more firm and true 
well-wisher on earth than Miss Nimmo, who 
geems to tremble for every mis-step which 
your impetuous temperament urges you to 
take. 1 wonder now if I could possibly 
refrain from writing to you, and from laying 
bare my actual sentiments; for I write some 
records of feelings, prompted by the thought 
of you, which never leave my hands. And, 
even now, I would send you some hnes which 
were suggested by observing you mixed up 
with society which was not. likely to con- 
tribute any good impressions, had 1 but your 
promise not to be annoyed for my freedom. 

I sadly fear our correspondence will dwin- 
dle away after you leave town, and when 
new objects have distracted your attention ; 
and therefore, in somewhat jealous enjoy- 
ment of my present gratitication, I write on 
more profusely. Nevertheless, and although 
I feel that your marriage would be fatal to 
our intercourse, I really should be happy to 
see you well matched ; for I am well assured 
that you can never rest satisfied or hanpy, 
without some permanent object of attach- 
ment. I propose to abandon myself in my 
next epistle to one of my rambling preachings, 
and to discuss religion with you again, having 
mucii to observe in relation to ihe sentiments 
expressed in your recent letter ; but I shall 
try to keep myself from worrying you for 
Bome days to come. 1 am olf the day after 
to-morrow, with my poor boy, to Leith, and 
should then have been overjoyed of your 
company, had you been capable of joining us. 
Y'JU lu-e a great glutton in reading ; does it 
happen that Sancho's Letters have fallen in 
your way? If not, by all means obtain a 
eopy. What a beautiful piece is the epitaph 



which you enclose me; but it suggests a 
melancholy train of thoughts, and the fore- 
dwelling on the loss of those to whom we 
are best attached, only serves to shed a 
gloom over our existence, without being pro- 
ductive of an equivalent of good results upon 
our character. Oh that I had only half youf 
power of expression, and a little of that 
brilliancy and vividness which you possess I 
What could I not express i Clasimda. 



Janvary I2th, 1788. 

Ah ! Sylvnnder, at last have you seen me 
divested of those imaginary perfections 
wrought up in your oun fancy, and in my 
own fulness of failing. Doubtless, have yoiP 
"weighed, and found me wanting." And 1 
would fain confess that, notwithstanding the 
very pressing desire which I had to enjoy 
your society, I had, at the same time, a dread 
lest it should destroy the spell which attached 
you to me. As for myself, I do not ever 
remember to have enjoyed such transcen- 
dental gratification. Nor do I believe, 
S)'lvander, that such enjoyment is reserved 
for many amongst human kind, nor for the 
few who are capable of it, very frequently. 
Why is it, then, that I have not slept ? 1 
inquire of my conscience, whether I hav» 
done wrong, and that conscience acquits me 
No limit of propriety or virtue have I trans 
gressed. Still have 1 some indomitable 
dread, lest in the eye of the Deity, the line 
distinctions of my reasoning be susceptibla 
of revealing something which might lead to 
displeasure. The idea that a friend, to whom 
I am much indebted, should not be prepared 
to concur in the propriety of my conduct, 
and the dread that you yourself, Sylvander, 
may have grown to think less well of me — 
all these things continue to agitate ray 
thoughts. 

Enough of myself. Can you tell on tha 
gn'oiind of what predestined privilege those 
of birth and rank, that is of genealogical 
distinction, who possess no other merit, 
assume so much ? I cannot admit any 
reverence for rank or lineage in itself. I can 
even admire personal beauty, to the extent 
of giving it s jme degree of precedence ; I 
can yield admiration and superiority to 
genius or to virtue; but to mere high birti 
— no ! And how is it that, amongst my 
acquaintance, I only, with the eiccption oJ 




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iiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiii/iHiiiiiiiiniiininiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiH^ 




654 



LETTERS OF CLARINDA 



Mary/ entertain this seemingly heterodox 
notion. I must relate you au anecdote, to 
wliich all this is a-propos. On Sunday last, 
between church hours, I spent my time with 
an acquaintance, upon whom, also, a sister 
of my Lord Napier happened to call at the 
same time. I knew the lady well by sight, 
but was so disgusted with her obtrusive 
manner, her impertinent interruptions, and 
her coarseness, and, at the same time, with 
the despicable adulation which the lady of 
the house oil'ered her, that I was even more 
reserved towards her than I otherwise should 
have been. At all events, I shoidd not have 
been inclmed to bestow any particular mark 
of attention upon her ; and, as it was, she 
repelled even the ordinary courtesy with 
which, with others, I should naturally liave 
treated her. 

By the way, I was just now mentioning 
Mary ; I think of spending a day with her 
soon, if I feel a little more fit for society ; 
I daily grow to like her better, and the 
undisguised admiration which she expresses 
when your name is mentioned, is an addi- 
tional link of attachment between us. 
Wherefore do you vainly trust to pillar your 
religion in a good life ? What you call 
" relic/ion of the bosom," is, in my estimation, 
also the only religion. But pardon me, 
Sylvander, if I intmiate that yours, according 
to your own showing, is more a religion of 
the head than a "religion of the bosom." 
What avails your imagined good life, unless 
you place your full reliance for its acceptation 
upon the redemption, effected at a terrible 
sacrifice, by the Son of God. The best of 
men commits innumerable sins ; the best of 
lives, in the eyes of a Being all pure, all 
innocent, must be polluted by countless 
stains ; and do you vainly hope that you, 
with an excess of passion and sensibility, 
viiill be capable of effecting what the sternest 
philosophers have failed to do ? I want to 
impress upon you the religion of the Gospel, 
which is the only real " religion of the 
bosom." On all points of general morality 
we are, doubtless, agreed. But hov/ can we 
be otherwise ? these will not bear two inter- 
pretations. But look to it, search through 
the philosophy of the ancients, with all its 
classical beauty, with all its refinement, with 
all its subtlety, and with as perfect a moral 
code as any other extant, and tell me, if it be 
not barren and unsatisfactory at best ? Do 
you really, Sylvander, discern the celestial 
consolation in the lives and deaths of Socrates 

• Miss Peacock, who subsequently married 
Mr. James Gray, of the High School, Edin- 
burgh. 



or Cato ? No, no ! some important bond 
was wanting, and that was only supplied in 
the revelation of Christianity. But I must 
leave the subject now ! I will take it up 
again from time to time. But now I am 
weary, and have wearied you. Farewell. 



[_Reply to Letter No. 87, pp. 304, 305.j 
January \1tli, 1788. 

I AM not a little surprised at your warm 
defence of Miss Napier; and I understand 
she has merits such as you describe. Most 
persons are pleased with her, and, perhaps, 
she was to be excused for not attributing as 
much importance to Clarinda, as her own 
friends would have done. Yet there is a 
general evidence of good breeding which she. 
certainly failed to exhibit on this occasion. 
Her face is not ill-looking, but her figure 
and carriage are awkward. 

As to your Epigram on Elphinstone, it io 
exquisite and well merited ; — a more arrant 
pedant one seldom meets with. Can I have 
the pleasure of your company this evening, 
or, if you like it better, to-morrow evening, 
either at tea or about eight o'clock. I sliould 
much like to see you ; but I should prefer 
your coming on foot, even if you should be 
obliged to order a chair to take you back, 
for you well know what a quiet, humble set 
of people we are about here, and liow great 
a disturbance is likely to be created, by the 
appearance of equipages in a quarter such 
as ours. 

You have a magical influence over mej 
you seem to possess every secret clue to ray 
most secret inclinations, thoughts, or 
impulses ; and if it be possible for letters to 
utter all one's most tender and unspeakable 
sentiments, they are yours. But whence, 
then, can be the charm which you attach to 
mine? Do you really, truly take pleasure 
in these wretcVied scrawls, or is it merely 
a self-deception, of some peculiar partiality, 
which you do not attempt to control, which 
deceives you into a belief of gratification ? 
Wherefore do you doubt the "lasting im- 
pression " which you have made ? You who 
possess the unreserved access to my innermost 
thoughts. 

Do not forget to write me word when you 
will come and spend the evening with me ; 
and on that occasion, whenever it be, be 



TO Bumsrs. 



555 



careful how you tamper with the lock of 
eecrets which you have al; your command, in 
your Clarinda. 



NO. XIII. 



{Reply to Letters Nos. 89 and 90. pp, 305,* 

306.] 

Thursday, January, 1788. 

I CANNOT help shuddering:, when I find 
myself, for an instant, suffering the least in- 
fraction of the strictest rules of propriety. 
I shrink from myself at the thought of pos- 
sible transgressions. 

For these reasons, I am depressed and 
uneasy to-day ; everything about me appears 
gloomy, and sad, and reproachful. I feel a 
sort of dark and ill-defined remorse for what 
transpired last night, and I would conjure 
you not to suffer me in future — not to expose 
me to the temptation of doing ought that 
may not preserve the dignity and delicacy of 
our intercourse. Otherwise, we shall destroy 
the most irrefragable bond of union, which 
should have perpetuated our intercourse. Yet 
we shall have to part one of these days, and, 
painful as that parting would be of itself, 
how much more so, would it not be made, 
did any intervening follies tend to depreciate 
the mutual esteem, and thus to damp the 
more distant colloquy which we should other- 
wise mamtain. How I dread, Sylvander, to 
be lowered in your estimation! And how 
my heart recoils from any act or thought 
which I dare not entertain in the abstraction 
of my daily devotion ! 

I have told you how wretched love has 
made me, and is doomed to make me. Let 
me then abstain from indulging in the 
fatal passion to which the ardent tempera- 
ment which I possess, so peculiarly exposes 
me. 

I can picture to myself the delight of 
reading your letters, when the bitter parting 
is once well over, and distance between us 
has mellowed down the excessive ardour of 
passion, which now impels me at times to do, 
or own that which may degrade me in your 
estimation. 

Oh, why do I not hear firom you to-day ? 
Why do I receive no more of those sponta- 
neous outpourings of a soul which, in its 

• Probably Thursday, January 24tli. This 
date has actually been assignetl to a letter 
written by Clarinda to Burns, of which the 
purport is very analogous. 



elevation, seems to waft us nearer to the 
sublime expanse of eternity and immortality? 
I dare not trust myself to see you on Satur. 
day, unless the flutter of my feelings he 
lowered to the compass of my own control ; 
and then, I believe, an interview, maintained 
with proper reserve, that is, in preserving 
the strictest rules of conduct which I have 
from the first prescribed for us, would much 
conduce to restore my disturbed peace oi 
mind. Farewell. Clarinda, 



Tuesday Evening, January 2^th, 1788. 

My very Dear Sylvander — Ji my ap- 
preciation of your sincerity of interest in the 
real welfare of your Clarinda had needed any 
confirmation from you, your noble conduct, 
in our interview of Saturday night, would 
have satisfied the most tender scruples. And 
if we did allow ourselves to infringe some of 
those stewi barriers which retain the corres- 
pondence between ardent persons of different 
sexes within the sphere of arctic frigidity, 
I do not feel myself conscious of wrong- 
doing, and the retrospect calls no blush to 
my cheek, nor disquiet to my heart. But we 
must assert a redoubled caution and obser- 
vation on our very thoughts, lest we admit 
the least ascendancy of temptation over the 
purest dictates of virtue. Oh, if there be 
spirits — which we would fain believe in for 
our consolation — whose kindly office is to 
preserve us from the first insidious advent of 
evil, may they guard, watch, and protect 
each of us ! 

Sylvander, I have no power to reserve my 
feelings towards those whose sympathies are 
so wound up with mine. Must I then con- 
fess the love which I have so long struggled 
to suppress ? Yes ! and should not this 
awaken me more keenly to a sense of 
danger? Yet can you tell me, Sylvander, 
why tliis confession should in my heart b« 
associated with an idea of wrong ? 

Is it not that I feel myself irrevocably 
bound to another, who has forfeited all claim 
to the love which is thus left desolate ? 

I will not complain of my doom. No ! 
nor will I pain my Sylvander, by dwelling 
upon a condition which neither he nor I can 
dissolve. 

But I have unbosomed myself to my best 
of advisers and pastors, Mr. Kemp * to 

• The Minister of Toltook Church, Ediiv. 
burgh. 



48* 



656 



LETTERS OP CLARINDA 



whom I am in the habit of coininunicating 
my perplexities, and I feel as if a load had 
been lifted from my oppressed and bursting 
heart. 

Ah ! Sylvander, if you and Mr. Kemp 
were known to each other, would not a 
reciprocal esteem spring up between you. 
You could not help admiring his sterling 
piety, his judginent, and his benevolence, as 
well as his talents ; whilst he would be 
enchanted with that fresh and glowing 
imagination, that exquisite sensibility, and 
that intuitive benevolence of character, 
which distinguish you above all the weak- 
nesses which sometimes betray themselves 
in your conduct. 

I do not know why it is so, but I cannot 
help feeling some secret satisfaction that 
your Excise project has not succeeded. I do 
not mean to intimate that I would rather 
see you pursuing your present indefinite 
career, than firmly settled in some desirable, 
profitable, and competent occupation. But, 
Sylvander, if you have a weakness above 
any other, which is likely to lead you to 
mischief, if not to ruin, it is a love of con- 
viviality, which, in the capital, might seduce 
you from the direct career of honour and 
respectability, and I shudder at the thought 
of your being despised by the worldlings of 
a town, in which wits and scholars, noblemen, 
and burgesses, have all bowed down and 
worsliipped you. I should burst with 
anguish at the triumph of malicious envy 
over your fall. If I have two things at 
heart more earnestly than any others in this 
world, they are to impress you with my own 
ideas and fervour in religion, and to see you 
provided with some callmg which should 
occupy your time and talents in such a 
maimer, as to maintain you honourably in the 
hujhcst social position tohich the supremacy of 
your f/enius has atchicved. 

1 fear that, in being revealed to those to 
whom you have vaunted the " divinity " of 
Clarinda," she falls sadly from the misty 
elevation of her glory. You forget, my dear 
Sylvander, that all do not see with your 
ej es, hear with your ears, or feel with your 
Bensibilities ; and, therefore, amons;st others I 
dread the judgruent of IMr. Ainslie on my 
account. I really fancy he must have smiled 
in pity for what he may have looked upon as 
your liallucination. 

I dread the visit of Mr. to morrow. 

He is evidently uneasy for me, and ventures 
only upon those oblique inuendoes which are 
intended to elicit an ex|)lanation from me. 
I cannot conneal from you, nevertheless, that 
your society is all in ail to me; but had we 



not better — or rather had I not better — exer 

cise a little self-denial? Do you tK.ok it 
prudent, now the jealous vigi.ance of somi 
of these Argus-eyed, and suspicious people 
of the world is awakened, to attract iQore 
marked attention ? Will you, under these 
circumslances come the day after to-morrow, 
or had we not better meet more rarely? 
No ! I have not resolution to force the 
separation. Come unless I warn you be- 
tween this and then, and may the spirits 
I have invoked preserve the innocence of 
your Clarinda. 



February, 1788. 

On ! were I free — free to dispose of thoso 
fond ties which bind us in mysterious sym- 
pathies, how should I not reply to your 
channing letter! I only dread myself when 
I think how nearly I may be prompted by 
feelings, which, 1 believe, in themselves to be 
innocent, to do, or even to think, that, which 
the calmer reflections would pronounce as 
verging on guilt. 

^^^lat boots it that we have congenial 
communion? for all which should consecrate 
that communion is due to another from me, 
although his claim be founded rather upon 
conventionality than upon merit. If I bring 
myself to reflect more impartially on my re- 
lations, I cannot conceal from myself the 
serious consideration that, however he may 
have forfeited, by wrong, all those tender 
ties by which we are bound, although hit 
acts shall not have been in keeping with his 
most sacred promises, such dereliction on 
his part can never dissolve the bond by which 
we are united, or exonerate me, should I be 
tempted to return a wrong for wrong. No, 
no! The most elevated sentiments of regard, 
sympathy, appreciation, nay, even attach- 
ment, as far as they fail to infringe the 
promises by which I am bound, are mine to 
bestow, and you have possessed them, and do 
possess them ; but so much as verges into 
more tender and less qualiliable affection is 
an unclaimed overflow of feeling — it is true 
— but unclaimed as it is, it belongs to the 
Giver of life, and to him it must be devoted 
as a free-will ofl!'ering. I give you my best 
and indelible friendship; but, Sylvander, you 
must not dare to ask for more, lest by 
tempting me to entertain a thought which 
conscience cannot calmly confirm, yon sacrii- 
fico the substantial happiness of life ta 



TO BURNS. 



557 



>he frantic dream of bliss which shall illu- 
mine an instant alone. 

Why are you not satisfied ? Why should 
not the elicitation of such a declaration from 
me, be sufficient to gratify your most ardent 
wishes ? 

I know, and feel too well, too keenly, that 
the union whicli has fettered me, is one 
which was as unworthy of my heart, as it 
was incapable of satisfying the redundancy 
of caliper sensibilities of which I am made up ; 
that your heart was capable of having ful- 
filled the most ample conceptions of mortal 
happiness for me ; that no two souls were 
ever so matched for the most complete 
identity of thoughts, feelings, hopes, fears, 
and affections; and that as we are hopelessly 
separated by a barrier which neither of us 
should dare to transgress, I, at least, can 
never be happy in this world, although by 
subduing the swelling passions which some- 
times threaten to rise in rebellion against 
my better feelings, I may retain a partial 
peace of mind, which otherwise I should for 
ever forfeit. 

How strangely have our sensibilities been 
coincident 1 I have been pondering over 
j'our own account of yourself, that is, of 
your early years, as you ingenuously revealed 
it to Ur. Moore. Amongst all your early 
predilections, whether in art, literature, or 
tht! admiration of nature, there is barely 
one which was not also mine ! I have loved 
the same poems ; I have culled the same 
flowers ; and seen the same incomparable 
symmetry in the landscape or the firmament. 

Yet withal, you see, Sylvander, there is an 
over-ruling doom, an everlasting predestina- 
tion, which has forbidden more than the 
recognition of these sympathies of soul — and 
we must be separated. 

You will leave the capital, and retire into 
the homely retreat of a peasant once more, 
whence I can only hear of you by letter, 
whither my heart will follow you, but where, 
probably, new ties will encircle themselves 
about you, and engross the little share which 
I possessed in your recollection. Possibly I 
shall not hear from you ; and the next time 
we meet— the next time! — itwill beforeternal 
joramunion, where none can part us, and no 
sinister power will be present to impede the 
interchange of sympatliies which must draw 
u? together. 

How I dread the day of parting which is 
drawing near I I feel as if it would be the 
Vast on earth — as if we should not meet again 
in this world ; and I shudder at it. Could 
you not creep stealthily away, and spare me 
that moment of anguish? Yet no! I coidd 



not bear to think tliat yon had shunned met 
You will not forget me. There will surely 
be something in the daily aspect of every, 
thing about you, which will remind you ol 
Clariuda! 

Oh God! is to-morrow — to-morrow that 
last day on which we shall meet. — You will 
come — you will not desert me without od9 
last meeting. Early in the day I will do ai 
you wish, and will give Miers* a sitting. 
Remember this shall be the bond of eternal 
friendship between us — yes, friendship : — do 
not think, breathe, or utter, a more tender 
attachment. I do not feel that I should be 
attended in sitting for the portrait. I should 
have been glad of Mary's company, because 
she understands me thoroughly ; but she is 
in the country; and the only other person 
whom I could ask to accompany me is ]Mis9 
Nimmo; and in this matter there is a Je ne 
S<;ais quoi which forbids me. 

IIow could you rend me with that parting 
song ! It is too much. Even you could 
scarcely have equalled the touching appeal 
more than once. I burst into tears. Cap. 
you doubt that I will be your friend to 
eternity ? Ah ! that " I may reca\" Would 
it were not so ! And yet why ? Should I 
not have lived without having felt the 
divinest sympathies of humanity, and would 
not the deepest spruig of feeling have been 
unsounded. 

Oh I Sylvander, how deeply do I regret 
that I had not known you, before you pro- 
claimed yourself the adversary qf our creed 
ill the biting satires with which you have 
assailed it. If the lines on Religion which 
you ii*\v send me in that dear letter had 
been oi earlier production, I should have 
been yet dout)ly happy in you. Would I not 
have implored eternal silence and forgetful- 
ness for the " Twa il-erds," and the " Holy 
Fair." I had rather admire you for goodness 
than for wit ; and your genius might accom- 
plish as mnch/or true religion as a thousand 
l)reacliers, even as it may deal a fatal blow if 
levelled nijainst it. 

I wish you would come and hear Mr. 
Kemp's j)rearhing, on Sunday next ; and I 
am convinced that with all the rhetorical 
skill and flowery diction of Mr. Gould, whom 
you so warmly admire, and whom I have 
heard, you could not fail to admit that Mr. 
Kemp's elocution, though more simple, ia 
more impressive ; that it carries with it a 
stronger impression of earnest conviction ; 
and tliat whereas Mr. Gould addresses him- 

• IMr. Miers was the miniature painter at 
Edinbursli, by whom Burns wished tc hav 
Mrs. MoLehose's portrait executed. 



558 



LEtTERS OF CLARINDA 



self to the mind, Mr. Kemp speaks to the 
heart, and in a language toe wliich the 
heart can readily interpret. 

You know how earnestly I have striven 
for your conversion to more serious thoughts 
on religion; you know how I have endea- 
voured to wean you from the indefinite 
reliance on a vague and unsatisfactory 
philosophy, which coldly sneers at the more 
earnest zeal of religious fervour. I have 
done something ; but how feeble a preacher 
«m I ! And I feel that you could not hear 
Mr. Kemp, without gaining in peace what 
you would inevitably obtain in conviction. 
Let me entreat you to hear him. 

Sylvauder, I do not know why it is I can 
unburden myself to you with a degree of 
freedom which my heart shrinks from ex- 
tending to any other living. Let me ask 
your advice. You well know who it is 
alone who really possesses any community 
of thought and sympathy with me. You 
must have discovered that no degree of kind- 
ness without this thorough interchange of 
mysterious sympathy would win me beyond 
a grateful — very grateful — but reserved 
respect. Well, some time since, when, as 
you have heard, I came to Edinburgh friend- 
less and unknown, one warm, faithful, earnest 
friend attached himself to my cause, aided 
and defended me. I need not tell you who 
this was : suffice it that such was the case. I 
was not slow to observe, guarded and reserved 
as was his respectful attention, that with him 
a warmer, closer, and more secret attachment 
was growing and being nourished within 
him. 1 do not think he knew or was willing 
to know this for some length of time ; hut 1 
believe he is no longer a stranger to his own 
feelings. At one time I do not hesitate to 
own that the tender, delicate attentions 
which I received at his hands, combined 
with an overflow of grateful regard for his 
generous and profitless aid, had, in some 
degree, conveyed a degree of tenderness to 
my own regard for him. But withal, there 
was no deep interchange of sympathies, and 
one (you well know who), meanwhile, had 
quicklj'' weaned me from this momentary 
surrender, by enforcing an absolute and irre- 
sistable surrender to his own mysterious 
power and control over all my most secret 
impulses. But with my sturdy friend it 
was otherwise ; — his secret passion continued 
to grow, and to this day feeds upon pros- 
pective hopes, which caiuiot, alaa ! ever now 
be realised. 

What can I do ? How can I proceed, to 
spare so generous a friend a i)ang, wliich, 
one day or other, I shall be condemned to 



'/nflict upon him ? Shall I unreservedly own 
my preference for Sylvauder? Yet there is, 
perhaps, equal danger to our mutual peace 
of mind in this. I cannot, nevertheless, bear 
to practice a tacit deception; I cannot dis- 
semble an attachment which I do not feel, 
and I shudder at the thought of allowing a 
secret passion, so strong, so earnest, and so 
apparently resistless, to be fostered until 
years shall have indomitably confirmed it. 



The thought of that parting, which is so 
soon to take place between us ; of the 
distance which is to interpose itself, and of 
the new associations which will gradually 
wean away your heart from me — all this wiH 
return to my mind. I have been endeavour- 
ing to chase the reflection from me, but iu 
vain. A few brief hours hence ! I cannot 
bear it ! May Heaven pour upon you, m 
fully as it is implored, the blessing of 

Clarinqa. 



Thursday, Feb. 21»f, 1788. 

My Dear Sylvander — Like yourself 
Clarinda feels with everyone, and for every- 
one. Is it not a strange, yet glorious, 
privilege which the heart possesses, to 
expand beyond the narrow limits of our cell 
of clay, to participate in the emotions of 
other beings of kiiulred texture ? It cannot 
have escaped any one of enlarged capacities 
for passion or intelligence, much less such 
capacities as you possess for both, that the 
vitality comprised within the compass of 
one body is inadequate to its yearnings. 
Hence, I imagine, solitude — that is, perfect 
solitude, is nupossible — and society, whether 
actual or imaginary, must be created. 

But there is a higher vocation for this 
necessity of sympathies ; a gospel mission, 
which is designed to contribute to the well- 
being of mankind. Did not our Saviour 
preach that doctrine of sympathies ? 

It is, perhaps, in tliis sacred acceptation, 
that sorrow and joy are equally conducive to 
the perfection of some Divine purpose, and 
that there is a holy pleasure, which I can 
barely express, but most intensely feel, "to 
weep with those who weep, and be glad with 
those who rejoice." But, wherefore th» 
seeming contradiction which, whilst my 
greatest desire is to distribute blessings to 
mankind, seems to withhold the means of 
coutributiui^ even the smallest share, so 



uiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'.iiiyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliiliiiiii' 



TO BU3NS 



sach blessings, even if it dow not condemn 
me unwittingly, and without design, to 
infll'-.t suffering. Why have I not means to 
place you above the reach of the contemptible 
malice, which springs from the envy of those 
who cannot match you, and glories in the 
affected superiorities of rank and fortune. 

If anything could have made me regard 
the adventitious vantage of circumstances 
with less esteem than I was naturally inclined 
to do, it is the comparison which vulgar 
minds would draw between the splendour of 
wealth, and the glory of virtuous genius, to 
the disparagement; of the latter. It is this, 
perhaps, which has more deeply impressed 
Goldsmith's immortal lines upon my mind 
of late : — 

" In nature's simplest habits clad. 
Nor wealth nor power had he ; 
Genius and worth were all he had. 
But these were aU to me." 

They are ceaselessly ringing in my ears. 

I love Miss Chalmers for her atUvihment 
te you. But here, again, the sad contradic- 
tion, that those who most appreciate your 
asble character, and incomparable talent, 
ihodd hi lamt alila ka place jfOH iu a posi- 



tion which should for ever free yoti frota 

dependence,' upon the mean-spirited world. 
I never before sighed for the advantages of 
circumstance. I do not ever recollect to 
have washed for wealth or grandeur ; but at 
this moment, what would I not give up for 
the means of raising Sylvander to that lofty 
position, to which his matchless wortb 
entitles him. 

Yet 1 could almost quarrel with Mary, 
for her ardent admiration of him, even 
wliilst I love her the better for it. Her 
guileless and unreserved expression of almost 
adoration, have recurred to me an hundred 
times ti\rough a wakeful night ; and, although 
I well know that she herself is not conscioui 
of transgressing the rights which have been 
asserted by Clarinda, I cannot help dreading 
such passionate admiration. She has been 
gratified to-day with the appreciation of 
Mrs. Cockburn's refined and acknowledged 
taste, and the praise of her "Henry," by 
the authoress of " I've seen the smiling ct 
fortune's beguiling," has made her as con> 
pletely happy as she appeared to have been 
last night, with the converse of my Sylvenda 
— if <iuch may be the aa»Htaed claim of yesM 



014 455 056 



